


A Prince of Dragonstone

by Etsukazu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arthur Dayne Lives, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Death, Dragonstone, F/F, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Multi, R Plus L Equals J, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 117,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etsukazu/pseuds/Etsukazu
Summary: The Targaryens were said to be powerful Dragonlords from the East. Shrouded in mystery, they were often accused of witchcraft and incest, but their unshakeable supremacy on the continent of Westeros had never been threatened. Their dragons and then their royal prestige had always protected them.Yet the Targaryen dynasty has collapsed, ending three centuries of undivided rule and leaving a continent in the chaos and uncertainty of usurpation.However, even dethroned, the princes and princesses of the House Targaryen still live, hidden as they can, in Essos as in Westeros, sometimes at their expense, sometimes without even knowing who they are. The Seven Kingdoms may not have heard the last of the Targaryens and their mighty dragons.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Jon Snow/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia)
Comments: 499
Kudos: 413





	1. A Heart in a Storm

**THE QUIET WOLF**

**283**

The dawn and the sight of the sun rising in the East were a view that was difficult to appreciate in Winterfell. The dawn was far too cold, the wind and its coolness often too sharp to open the shutters and watch the colourful sky and the dancing clouds of the morning. The men of the North were far too austere to devote even a few seconds to hobbies considered to be of little interest or eccentricities of the people of the south. Eddard had to admit, however, that the southern sunrises were a sight to behold, an eccentricity if there ever was one, but one which brought a peace of mind in a way that no northern contemplative activity could. Here, while the celestial light of the Sun glowed over the blue expanses of the Narrow Sea and the waters of Blackwater Bay, the restful warmth of its radiance and the marine fragrance that accompanied the morning breeze contrasted with his morose state of mind and the striking military picture that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Before his eyes laid out the rolling, green expanses of the Crownlands, on which stood farms and fields of every colour and where both fruits and grains were grown. But today, as the last days, these normally fertile expanses of life and greenery made way to an ocean of iron, leather and steel. Tents were erected everywhere in the distance, the ground was mud and dirt, the smoke of campfires was intermingled in the heights, while columns of men and horses were intermingled here below, moving and patrolling at the rhythm of the orders that the officers and captains gave at the top of their voices. It was not a landscape of peace and fertile provinces, it was the image of war and military campaigns. The Lands of King's Landing, the central regions of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, far from reflecting the appearance of prosperity one was entitled to expect from them, seemed devastated, exhausted and barren.

Beyond the camps and the smoke, the great western walls of King's Landing looked like as if they were emerging from the earth, lit by the first rays of daylight. In spite of the density of the outer villages, Eddard could still guess - if not perceive it clearly from the distance - the King's Gate. The diffuse but immense silhouettes of the Kingswood stretched further south, towards the Stormlands, and he could guess by the steepness of the long forest edge the plunging presence of the Blackwater Rush. While the red stone walls of the town gleamed brightly, the blackened stones of the surrounding buildings and the collapsed houses clearly showed to the young lord of Winterfell the signs of fire and looting. The blossoming spectacle of the dawn of the south immediately seemed tainted and unworthy to him, so he quickly turned his gaze away from the sky and from afar, and looked upon what laid out before him.

The outer perimeter of King's Landing and the grounds devoted to tournaments and major games were covered with armies, so much so that it was impossible for the young Stark to see the end of them. Fifty thousand men, if not more, were gathered together in the same place and organized themselves as best as they could. They came from all over the kingdom. The falcon rousant Bleu celeste upon a plate argent on the azure banners of the House Arryn of the Eyrie floated everywhere, and the direwolf courant cendrée on the argent banners of the House Stark of Winterfell floated beside them, interspersed with the trout embowed argent on the paly wavy azure and gules banners of the House Tully of Riverrun. On either side, isolated, stood the banners of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon, respectively the coats of arms Gules, a lion rampant Or, and Or, a stag salient, crowned, Sable. It was indeed fifty thousand men and five massive armies, at the pinnacle of their glory and strength, encamped at the foot of a ravaged city.

It was a grandiose and impressive spectacle, but one that inspired him only pain and melancholy. Just like the one of the infant whose babblings full of joy were filling the alcove of his big tent.

“He has his father's eyes.” Ser Arthur Dayne suddenly said, as he held the baby and stared at it with a respect that a man of his rank could only hold for a prince.

Eddard squinted in doubt at the expression of the dornish knight. Arthur Dayne, the man of legend known as the Sword of the Morning, the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, former member of the Kingsguard, was holding little Jon, already known as the bastard he had sired in the south. Eddard would have preferred the truth to be that simple. Because every time the young Warden of the North looked into little Jon's eyes, every time he appreciated their incredible dark and purple reflections, it was not the purple tones of southern families like the Dayne that he saw, but the purple tones of Old Valyria, of conquerors and liberators, of tyrants and kings.

The tincture of the Dragonlords.

“No,” he replied mechanically, before crossing Arthur's purple eyes. “He has his mother's eyes.” he added, as if to convince himself of the lie they were obliged to diffuse.

“For now.”

The knight's terse response put an end to any further debate, but his expression was indicative of his resentment. It was clear to Eddard that the dornishman did not like the idea of using lies in this way. The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell gave a passing thought to the memory of those they used, praying for forgiveness as he had done for many weeks. But they never had a choice.

“Lord Eddard!”

Eddard turned towards the tent entrance as soon as he heard his name. A man was standing there and had just entered without announcing himself. His outfit of gambeson and brown and gray leather clearly identified him as a northerner and one of his banners. His expression was solemn. His facies was hard and typically embodied the austerity of a northman, but his clear features and small stature betrayed his roots as a crannogman. He was none other than Howland Reed, lord of the stronghold of Greywater Watch, his faithful companion.

“What happened?” the young lord of Winterfell asked bluntly.

“The King. He demands your presence. He's heading this way.”

 _The King._ If that word did not inspire such disgust in Ned, in reminiscence of what the previous bearer of this title of nobility had dared to do to his family and to the whole kingdom, perhaps he would not have pointed it out, if not so bitterly. But the fact that his dear friend Robert was able to dress in such a pomp and circumstance even before he was crowned and to claim all the properties of his future title so quickly caused him constant uneasiness. _King Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name_. What a vulgar reality, knowing that the man's first royal act had been to legitimize in his vengeful madness the same kind of act against which he had risen. What a sad irony.

“I'm going to retire.” Ser Arthur said calmly as he rose to his feet.

Eddard briefly crossed the dornish glance, a meaningful glance which he also addressed to Howland Reed. His little Jon was indeed still in the arms of the Dayne, and it was clear to all three why it was safer for the knight to retire with him. The further away the baby was from Robert, the better off they all would be. Them, and the kingdom.

“I'm going to meet him.” Howland said, before returning outside when he received the consent of his liege.

Howland knew the truth, he knew their strategy, and the trust that Eddard had in him was as solid as Valyrian steel. Since the famous Harrenhal tournament that brought them together, the crannogman had been a true brother in arms and had saved his life many times, often at the risk of his own. He looked serenely at the man's back as he left his tent.

His relationship with Arthur Dayne was much more complicated, but despite the fact that they had both been on opposite sides during the war, circumstances made it so that there was no more reliable than him. Eddard may even have had more confidence in Dayne than he had in Reed, if it was relevant for him to compare. Arthur Dayne, with a sharp but complicit look, gave him one last acquiescence before silently leaving the scene in the footsteps of the crannogman. 

From then on, he returned to the solitude of his quarters, the silence that had taken over the room being spontaneously interrupted by the sounds of the outside world, the bursts of voice, the sound of steel and horses. Knowing Howland had gone to meet Robert, the Stark went to sit on one of the seats around the table in the center of his tent. His spirit wandered then, as he remembered the sum of the events that had brought him to this place, until that moment, when he was no longer waiting for a friend, but for a king. A compulsive king, who was mourning ferociously. Or was he trying to believe it, because mourning and ferocity were no guarantee of harmony. Robert didn't like to wear black anyway.

The shadow at the entrance of the tent followed by the sound of footsteps soon announced the arrival of the person concerned. He came in with a bang.

“Ned Stark!” he exclaimed loudly, a stubborn gleam shining in his blue eyes, and then a joyful one the very moment he saw him.

Eddard immediately stood up at the sight of him and stared at him with great caution. Robert was tall as well as muscular. He was a handsome man, the typical image of the powerful Baratheon: big blue eyes evoking storm and fury, like the motto of his house. His hair, cut relatively short, evoking the soldier that he was, was deep brown, almost black. His skin was pale, and his finely trimmed beard betrayed a vigorous, thick growth. His friend Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. His friend, or so he thought. But now that he was the King, it was hard to know if such a bond still existed. One could not be a friend of a king. Only his subject.

“Your Grace.” he said humbly while bowing.

“Oh, enough!” Robert exclaimed at once as he stepped forward. “I've had enough of Your Grace for one day. I won't have this mawkishness from you, Ned.”

Eddard wanted to protest, and his half-reticent look expressed it for him before his voice could rise. He changed his mind, however, when he saw the humorous gleam of warning shining in the Baratheon's eyes. Robert knew him well… And he knew Robert well in return.

“All right, Robert. What can I do for you?”

Robert didn't answer. He looked at the room with curiosity. He seemed to be looking for something, and Eddard obviously knew what it was. It wasn't that hard to guess.

“I don't see Ashara's bastard, Ned. Where did you hide him?” he asked shamelessly. The new king was rarely ankylosing himself with politeness. He resumed quite quickly in a snarling tone while continuing to observe around them. “Let me guess! His damned Dornish uncle has him in his care once again, hasn't he? If he hadn't come out of the same womb as the mother of your bastard son, I would have had him quartered and I would have divided the pieces in each of the Seven Kingdoms for breaking his damn oath. Goddamn oath-breaking and dragon-sucking traitor, as if that's all there was in that Kingsguard.”

“Robert.”

Eddard's neutral tone was not above reproach.

“I know, I know. As if I could do it now that I accepted his resignation. As if I could do it at all. He's sharing the blood of your blood, isn't he? You Northern wolves and your principles. They will lose you.”

The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell took an imperceptible breath of relief. After what had happened lately, it was hard to know how serious Robert was about what he was saying. About what was true and what wasn't. Especially when it concerned the former sworn shield of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Eddard didn't know anything anymore.

“I want to see her.”

The expression of his king of a friend changed as quickly as his tone. His look was as eager as it was sinister, and there reigned in the apple of his eye that contemplative glow, as if he were consulting some upsetting events of the past. Eddard had seen that look so many times in the last few days that he was no longer surprised. But even more so than when he had watched Robert looking strangely obsessively at his little Jon, Eddard had been overcome with an unpleasant feeling of morbid embarrassment.

“Robert, you already know that it's not reasonable. It's unhealthy and it's going to drive you crazy. You cannot keep doing that.”

“Damn it Ned, I'm not asking your permission. I have to see her. I have to.”

Eddard remained silent for a few seconds and then nodded calmly. He told his friend to follow him and went to a second, smaller alcove in the back of his tent. It was only separated from the rest of his quarters by a simple curtain, as if it were somehow intended to conceal this part of the tent. A coffin was laying there on a simple wooden table. The light barely passed through the thick canvas of the tent, not much more than the few candle lights in the adjacent alcove. Nevertheless, despite the gloomy atmosphere of the place, the air was still relatively pure. And the coffin, black and polished. The two men approached and Eddard then slowly opened the top of the large mortuary container.

In spite of the three weeks that had passed since her death, the silent sisters and the maesters under his authority, as well as those who had chosen to follow Arthur Dayne since their stopover at Starfall, had accomplished an impressive work of conservation. Cold but clean, Lyanna Stark looked like a sleeping beauty. The one waiting for her promised prince to come and rescue her from her long sleep. She looked peaceful. Soft, smooth and white. But his beloved younger sister was well and truly dead, and never again she would open her eyes to honour the people she laid them on with her beautiful Stark gray stare.

Lyanna Stark, the She-Wolf of Winterfell, was dead before she was even twenty years old. The last sun she was lucky enough to see was a sun of Dorne, which was setting through the red mountains and cliffs of the Dornish Marches. A warm and yellow sun and a blue summer sky, but this, thousands of leagues away from her home, far from the North and far from her kind. Her last moments had been spent in agony… What Robert didn't know was that she had also spent them in felicity.

“I should have been there for her.”

Robert's words caused Eddard to break into a cold sweat. He realized, however, that the Baratheon had not alluded to the more than peculiar circumstances of his dear little sister's death.

“I kill him every night since the Trident,” he continued afterwards, the self-pity present in the timbre of his voice transmuting into a palpable hatred. Eddard knew immediately who Robert was talking about. “I can't get enough of it. I drive my war hammer deep into his chest and the rubies of his armour continue to fly in the wind tirelessly before sinking around his carcass. I keep ripping out his damn heart, ripping it out and leaving it to rot in the water. Damn it, Ned, I want to kill that bastard as many times as I can. I want to see him suffer for what he did, but it's not enough. His eyes and his thoughts are elsewhere, he doesn't even see me.”

Robert somewhat leaned over the sleeping She-Wolf of Winterfell, bewitched by her state of death. Solemn, Eddard listened to him, overcome with pity for his friend.

“All he does is whispering her name. As if he had the right to!”

His supplications full of rancour and regret presented a sad spectacle of the man who once lived always in the future. Robert Baratheon's insouciance had died as quickly as he had been told of Lyanna's disappearance, and the king's odious request to execute them both after the execution of so many of their friends had left only anger. Now that she was dead, now that so many of them were dead, he was living with ghosts. Those of Lyanna, Brandon, Father, Denys, Elbert, Kyle, Jeffory, and so many others. In his mind, Eddard had already made the decision to bring him back to reality, but it was not easy.

“She should stay here, with me, Ned. She should stay and rest here, in front of the sea, under the sun, on a hill where the wind blows. In the light of the Seven and the Kingdom.”

Eddard sighed at this line.

“Robert, we've already talked about this…” he answered wearily. “Lyanna is a Stark. She is from the North. She must rest among her kind, under the watchful eye of our ancestors and the Old Gods. There is nothing here for her.”

“There is me.”

Eddard didn't respond to his friend's injunction. He didn't have to, and they both knew it. Robert was stubborn, and so was he. But Eddard had already decided. And more than with their father, their brother, and their ancestors, Lyanna's place was with the only creature of love to whom she had offered life.

Her little Ægon.

* * *

**THE RED VIPER**

“Oberyn, I'm asking you again, you need to calm down.”

Oberyn heard the voice of Prince Doran and the injunctions he was formulating. Reasoned and calm, the reigning prince of Dorne remained true to what he had always been and what people had always known about him. The emotions on his thin and matt rhoynish face revealed no anger, no hatred. The only thing Oberyn saw in it was mistrust, caution, a hint of sorrow and concern that he knew was directed at him. Knowning it didn't help him to calm down, on the contrary. Oberyn knew himself well, he knew himself to be warm-blooded, he knew himself to be impulsive. But his intentions were good, and he was so repulsed by this situation that he couldn't stop the fury and disgust from crackling in his veins.

And the only way for him to get rid of this burning desire to scream his head off, to break everything around him and wield his spear in all directions, was to walk nervously in front of his elder brother's office. Doran saw it, and he suspected it himself: his face must have been disfigured by hatred, he must have displayed an expression of unparalleled rage. The way the hysteria had invaded his thoughts and his body indicated this in every way.

“Let me go!” he exclaimed, the tone of his voice easily betraying a state of mind torn between a gloomy calm and an urgent desire for revenge. “I can gather twenty thousand spears and five thousand riders in two weeks. I can raise Dorne and the whole Greenblood. We would have tens of thousands dornishmen from all over the country in less than a moon!”

Oberyn had uttered his suggestion in an almost panicked gasp and without even stopping his hundred paces. He hadn't even clearly observed Doran. He knew it wasn't good manners towards his older brother and reigning prince, but his mind was elsewhere. He was facing north. Towards traitors, monsters, rapists and child killers. His ranting was such that he could have vomited blood with his guts.

“We have to strike now, when they're not expecting it. I'll rip apart the Lannisters and their vulgar Baratheon puppet myself if I have to!”

Alas, Oberyn noticed that his older brother didn't seem convinced. He even saw him breathe a tired sigh.

“Doran! Elia, she…! We have to…”

“Oberyn, enough. Sit down. Please.”

Oberyn realized that he was out of breath and was gradually entering a state of hyperventilation. He would have liked to insist more, to try to stir up his elder brother's rage to make it correlate with his own. But Doran remained adamant, and his gaze had hardened even more. What he'd once formulated as a request had suddenly become more than that. And Doran rarely gave him orders. Oberyn then remembered where he was, and looking at the ground and his feet in a haggard way, he tried as best he could to end his bewilderment. Inhaling several times, deeper and deeper, calmer and calmer, he managed to get the warm blood that was bubbling out of his veins.

Only infinite sadness remained, while the tears in his eyes replaced the blood in his veins. And his sadness echoed that of his dear Doran, to whom he gave a tearful and worried look. Then he came to sit down, following his brother's wish. Silence occupied the room for long seconds. Until his brother decided to break it, as he knew how to do so well.

“If you were to raise the Greenblood, if you walked with Dorne behind you, heading north, what would happen next?” he asked him. Oberyn had the decency to not answer him. “We would enter into war against the Usurper and his followers, of whom there are many. Against the Lannisters, who are powerful. What would the Reach do? Can you make sure the Tyrells are neutral?”

Oberyn realized soon enough that Doran was expecting an answer from him. He felt frustrated at his question, knowing what his reigning prince wanted him to say. He wouldn't take it so easily.

“The Tyrells were loyal to the Targaryens. The Redwynes and the Tarlys were the most dedicated houses in the—“

The thwarted and disdainful clacking of Doran's tongue immediately made him understand that the reigning prince did not at all agree with his observation.

“The Tyrells were defeated at Storm's End. A grotesque defeat after a useless siege. The Redwynes withdrew with losses and what was left of their war fleet,” Doran replied wisely. He exuded caution, and Oberyn let him continue. “But above all, the Usurper granted them forgiveness when they could have received death. Well, Oberyn? Can you make sure the Tyrells are at least neutral if we attack?”

Oberyn clenched his fists in frustration as his knees trembled.

“No, I can't.” he admitted quietly.

“No, you can't,” his brother nodded calmly. “If we were to attack, if we were to attempt a retaliation, not only would we find ourselves against the Usurper's army, but we might end up finding ourselves caught in pincers by the Reach's armies. We would lose.”

It was a fact that the enmity that reigned between the Dornishmen and the inhabitants of the Reach was as old as the history of the Seven Kingdoms, but these cultural tensions had essentially decreased during the union of the Seven Kingdoms with Dorne under Daeron the Good, following the marriage of his sister the Princess Daenerys Targaryen with the Prince Maron Martell of Dorne. Since then, the regional tensions between Dorne and the Reach had more to do with folklore and gossip and inn jokes than with territorial realities. The idea that the Tyrells or the Redwynes could turn against them when it was a question of punishing regicides and perjurers revolted Oberyn to the utmost.

“If we do nothing, if we let the slaughter of Elia and the House Targaryen go unpunished, we'll look like cowards in the eyes of the whole kingdom, Doran.”

His brother's response was not long in coming, nor was the indignation that began to flow through his veins again.

“If that's our fate, then so be it. The war is over.”

“But Brother!” he harangued him at once. “Elia is—“

“Elia is dead, Oberyn!”

Doran had gotten up and had raised his voice. It was the first visible trace of anger on his face since Oberyn had entered his office to tell him of his desire to lead Dorne's armies to war. He then fell back to his seat and concluded his line in a dull and defeated tone.

“She is dead.”

Yes, of that they could no longer doubt. Princess Elia Martell, their beloved sister, and recent widow of Prince Rhaegar, had been murdered within the walls of the Red Keep of King's Landing. The rumour was spreading, ever stronger and more credible, that she and her two children had been horribly massacred, so much so that Tywin Lannister, who had not even taken responsibility for it, could not present their bodies other than wrapped in sheets with the Gules and Or Lannister coat-of-arms. Sheets stained with innocent blood, before which Robert the Usurper had granted pardon to the perpetrators of the crimes.

That was two moons ago. And Oberyn couldn't stop crying every night at the thought of her dear Elia screaming under torture and abuse. According to the accusations made by Lord Eddard Stark, which were on all the mouths of Dorne, Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch, sinister bannermen of the Westerlands, were the culprits. It was said of them that they raped Elia during the night of the sacking of King's Landing before killing her in an odious manner, with their bare hands, and desecrating her body for hours on end, subjecting her to indignities even worse than her rape had been, if that was even possible. The same fate was said to have been reserved for her children, whose bodies had turned out to be so unrecognizable during their presentation to the Usurper that it had been difficult to describe them as human remains.

“Elia is dead, but Rhaenys is still alive.”

Doran's reply brought Oberyn out of his dark thoughts. Doran was right a thousand times. Rhaenys was alive. His little dragon princess. He loved her right away, when Elia presented her to him at birth. He had nearly forgotten her. Through all the savagery of this rebellion and despite the atrocious death of his poor sister, a miracle occurred. Oberyn could hardly understand how it was even possible, but Rhaenys had indeed survived the massacre.

The lint body that may still lie in those sinister Lannister sheets was not that of his beloved niece. One of Elia's servants who was present on the royal floors during the attack had the quick wit to carry Rhaenys away before the Red Keep fell into Lannister hands. It was according to this servant lady another little dornish girl, a certain Myria, daughter of a servant girl, who had been targeted. The poor girl must have been captured in the company of Princess Rhaenys little black kitten and was mistaken for her.

But Oberyn would have recognized her among a thousand, just as he had recognized her when he saw her come down in tears from the boat that had seen her fleeing from King's Landing. Rhaenys had taken a lot from Elia, including her delightfully olive skin colour, it was true. But she had also taken so much from Rhaegar, starting with that incredible strand of gold-silver hair, a unique and typical Targaryen colour, which ran elegantly through her dark brown hair on the left side of her head. Her eyes gleaming an intense golden colour as if they were imbued with the magic of the Rhoyne, like those of the water witches of the past, signalled a rhoynish blood as strong as her fine features screamed out her powerful Valyrian heritage.

Oberyn remembered losing track of time when he had been able to hug and console her on this isolated quay in the port of the Planky Town. He had rarely been seen away from her this past week. He had lost Elia without even being able to do anything, and he didn't want to feel so helpless anymore.

“You understand why you shouldn't do anything, little brother.” Doran then continued. His brother watched him, and must have appreciated the fact that his expression softened at the thought of their surviving niece. “She's a Targaryen, maybe the last one. She's also a Martell. For the better or the worse, we will share her fate. We must protect her at all costs. And by protecting her, we must also protect ourselves.”

He sighed as he let Doran's words reach him and caress the reason that was finally coming back to him. War couldn't be an option, not now when they were alone.

They stopped their discussion and immediately interrupted all reflection when a series of three knocks were heard at the door of Doran's office. The two brothers looked at each other for a moment in anticipation before Doran exclaimed vigorously: “Come in!”. A few seconds passed before the door opened to the face of Areo Hotah, one of Doran's trusted men. Like his brother's beloved wife, Lady Mellario, young Areo Hotah was from the Free City of Norvos. Oberyn didn't know him well, but he trusted the judgment of his brother and goodsister. The norvoshi was loyal to Mellario and seemed to have naturally extended that loyalty to the recent husband of his esteemed mistress.

“My princes,” he said simply, bowing respectfully. “Lady Tyrone wishes to see you.”

“Bring her in.” Doran replied simply in an acquiescence.

The young norvoshi guard humbly returned to remove himself from their presence and let the aforementioned one in. Lady Tyrone, as he had called her, was the servant to whom Princess Rhaenys owed her life. She was a relatively old woman, whose features, though tired, betrayed her origins as a stony dornishwoman. She served in the nursery of the Red Keep even before Elia married Rhaegar. For Oberyn, the maid owed her survival and luck to her more andal than rhoynish features. Had she been more salty or sandy than stony, and he doubted that she would have made it through the Lannister troops with Rhaenys in her footsteps.

“Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn.” she greeted them with a gracious curtsy. It was clear that Lady Tyrone had lived in the Red Keep for a long time. With the door now closed behind her, Oberyn realized that three of the four people who knew the identity of Rhaenys Targaryen were in the same room. The last one was none other than Mellario. The four had agreed that the princess would never be isolated. Lady Tyrone quickly focused on him and gave him a sad look. “My prince, the princess… She needs you. Her mother's absence has again brought her to tears, and she is inconsolable. The presence of Lady Mellario has made no difference.”

Oberyn turned to Doran with a worried look, who returned his attention with a sympathetic one. Rhaenys had become attached to him very quickly. There hadn't been much need for words. As soon as they had met on the docks and he had given her all the warmth and affection of an uncle, the little girl's tears had changed from tears of fear to tears of sadness. She had gradually calmed down in his presence and he had done everything he could to maintain this bond. She was the beloved daughter of his dear Elia. She was like his own daughter.

“Lead me to her, Lady Tyrone.” he said as he stood up.

Doran got up after him and they followed the maid through the palace corridors. Down a wide white marble staircase, Tyrone led them outside, the soft darkness of the corridors immediately replaced by an ocean of light, revealing the sumptuous main courtyard of the Water Gardens, the most famous coastal palace of the Princes of Dorne.

The beautiful palace was one of Dorne's most magnificent mansions, if not of Westeros as a whole. The fresh sea air from the Summer Sea brought with it the floral scents of the palace's many gardens. Sweet scents of roses and tulips, intermingled with the exotic emanations of the fruits growing on date and mango trees, permeated the semi-shaded alleys of the gardens and courtyards. A rainbow of greenery, a panel as rich in scent as it was in colour was offered to the nose and eyes, the bright green of the trees and leaves and the limpid blue of the waters and the sky being sprinkled with yellow, red, pink, white and a multitude of other colours.

Benches made of luxurious mahogany wood were placed here and there between the bushes, against the walls or in front of the shallow water basins and comfortable cushions of all colours were placed there for the pleasure of the visitors who wanted to come and relax in this bath of light and nature. In front of the young prince's eyes was a small paradise, a true haven of peace and serenity, jewel of Dorne.

But further on, sitting on one of the famous benches, was Dorne's real jewel.

When Oberyn saw her, he felt his heart clench so tightly in his chest that he almost wavered with emotion. She was crying, Lady Tyrone had not lied. She did indeed seem inconsolable, in spite of Lady Mellario's warm embrace, who tried in vain to ease her princely troubles. She was not alone in her attempts. Around her, his eldest natural daughters, Obara and Nymeria, tried as best as they could to bring their contribution to the edifice by caressing and kissing her. Lady Mellario and his brother's eldest daughter, Arianne, stood behind her mother and held the hand of his third natural daughter, Tyene. The two little ones seemed just as caring and benevolent as the others.

It was as sad as it was touching to witness how their family had accepted the little Targaryen princess with such love. Rhaenys was already viscerally one of them, even though she didn't seem to be aware of it. But she was young, without her mother, scared. She couldn't see these things, and judging by the expressions of Lady Mellario, Arianne, and his daughters, they had already understood this and it didn't matter. They all adored her anyway.

Oberyn and Doran approached them, so they all turned around as they noticed them. Rhaenys, in tears, was the last to see him. She immediately evaded Mellario's gentle embrace and rushed into his arms as fast as her tiny legs would let her, babbling inaudible words through her sobs. But their sadness still reached Oberyn, finding an echo in his own wounded heart. Kneeling down, he received the little one with his arms wide open before hugging her warmly, kissing her little head at the place of her gold-silver strand as she cried her whole heart out in his chest.

“ _Muña._ ” he managed to heard a few times. She was mourning Elia, her mother. “ _Gon!_ ” he heard then between two cries. She was crying for Aegon, her little brother. “ _Ba-lion...!_ ” he also understood as he covered her with comforting kisses and caresses. She mourned Balerion, her little kitten.

No words were spoken around him. Not by Doran, not by Mellario, not by their daughter, not by his. But their eyes were clear. One day, like the illustrious sons and daughters of the Rhoyne of the ancient times, they would have their revenge.

And for her, until that moment, they would remain Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

* * *

**THE QUIET WOLF**

Eddard always had a deep respect for Jon Arryn, and a great trust in him. Sent as a ward alongside Robert Baratheon under the care of the old lord of the Eyrie, Eddard gradually came to see him as a father. Jon had always been good to them, he had taught them, and he had formed them. Eddard liked to think that he had become a man of honour like Jon, or at least he constantly strived every day of his life to achieve that ideal. When his father, Rickard, and his brother, Brandon, were killed by Aerys II Targaryen, known as the Mad King, Jon brought them the thoughtful comfort of a mentor. When the said Mad King demanded their heads for some crimes they had not committed, he and Robert, Jon Arryn did not even hesitate to raise the whole Vale against the Iron Throne. Jon would have given his life for them, despite the danger that his potential death represented for his lineage.

But now Eddard could not guarantee that he would blindly follow Jon Arryn and trust him with his life and those of his people as he had done during their uprising and at the height of the war. What Jon Arryn had done was unforgivable. Justifiable in terms of his benevolent political intentions, but unforgivable in terms of honour. Eddard still remembered the blood-stained sheets in which the bodies - or what was left of them - of Elia Martell and her children were lying. They had watched with haunted glances as one of Robert's bannermen unrolled the sheets at his command. Their bodies were desecrated beyond all reason, as if the Others themselves had been at work. No human being, or anyone claiming to be one, should have been capable of such savagery, such cruelty. One had to believe that the Mad King had not been the only madman of the Seven Kingdoms. Added to this was the disappointing death of Aerys II, pierced in the back and then slit in the throat by his regicide of a Kingsguard as if he had been a pig.

Jaime Lannister, author of this heinous regicide, should have been hanged up on the spot. Tywin should have been sent to the wall as it should have been for any instigator, and the bannermen responsible for the murder of Rhaegar Targaryen's family should have been finished like the beasts they were. More than honour, all the laws of the realm called for it.

And yet, in spite of this, Jon Arryn the man of honour, Jon Arryn the man of law, had contradicted his demands for justice and had pushed Robert to turn a blind eye to this odious affair. In the name of peace. And now that Eddard had in mind the beautiful violet eyes of his little Jon, glowing with that strange Valyrian magic, his disgust at the time had turned to horror, to fear, at the mere thought that the Starks would suffer the same fate as the poor souls who soaked those Lannister sheets.

“No disrespect, Lord Lannister, but you understand my position. As Hand of the King, I would still like to be informed of those decisions first.”

As Eddard sank into a contemplative silence, a discussion continued before his eyes.

“Lord Arryn, with all due respect, these decisions are not entirely within your qualifications as Hand. It was a long-standing agreement between Lord Lannister and His Grace.”

“Long-standing, you say, Grand Maester Pycelle? What do you mean, by long-standing? A moon?”

“Well, any perception of time is relative to the elements and the convenience of each and every…”

Eddard watched the exchange between the two men taking place. To his right, Jon Arryn stood dignified, seated on his chair and emanating all the qualities he was known for. Lord Jon Arryn was upright, it could be felt in the way he stood. He was just, as could be seen from his respectful gaze and his manner of expression. He was a good man, as could be seen from the kindness of his words and his temperance.

Facing them, sitting on the other side of the large table, at the far left, Grand Maester Pycelle stood without claiming to be so graceful. Eddard didn't know if he was playing his character and his alleged old age fatigue, but he was standing bent over, dressed in an almost too humble scholar's toga decorated with four heavy chains, and looking so modest that it seemed almost too accommodating and untrue. But Eddard could understand it: Maester Pycelle had been the Maester of the small council of the Mad King, and the Maester of the small council of his father King Jaehaerys II Targaryen before him. His situation in front of the allies was not the most favorable, even if he seemed quite comfortable in front of them.

“And yet, it is not the decision as such that bothers me, since I am the one who had initially suggested it. But your propensity to overstep your prerogatives and ignore my consultations is quite troubling, Lord Lannister. This also applies to you, Your Grace. I am your Hand, you have to inform me of your decisions, and whether or not I have given my prior support is irrelevant in that matter.”

“There's no need to discuss it any further, Lord Arryn. The decision has been made, it has been ratified, and unless you wish to contradict it, we will not reconsider it.”

Tywin Lannister's voice sounded clear and firm. His tone was dry and brittle, and judging by the expression on his face, his state of mind matched his tone. The man didn't like Jon Arryn reversing his decision. Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, former friend of the Mad King, former Hand of the King. He had many titles, was one of the most renowned and feared personalities in the kingdom. His reputation as a ruthless hardliner had been confirmed two moons earlier, when King's Landing was sacked and the Targaryen massacre he had instigated was carried out.

Tywin Lannister was a dangerous man, an extremely dangerous one. This was the second time Eddard had faced the man, the first time having been at the capture of the Red Keep, when his men had presented the bodies of Princess Elia and her children. The lord of Casterly Rock and the House Lannister was like the sinister songs written about him. A lion was the word. Older than them by about twenty years, the mass of his Lannister blond hair had already begun to diminish under a nascent baldness, but there was still a predatory glow in his green eyes, which came out all the more because he rarely blinked. He seemed unyielding and looked up at them with his superior air, showing that he was in no way intimidated by their presence. The Lion of Casterly Rock knew what he wanted and he would get it.

“My daughter Cersei will be queen. King Robert has agreed. End of the discussion.”

But Jon Arryn obviously didn't let himself be intimidated, and turned to Robert. His old mentor's answer was a bored look from his friend of the Stormlands. Jon Arryn sighed with a weary look of resignation. Eddard could understand it, as the terms of this matrimonial alliance had not been as financially binding as an efficient administrator such as Jon Arryn would have wished. All he actually got out of it was the definitive peace in the kingdom. Eddard himself had not even been informed of such a betrothal arrangement. To his credit, he'd been away for over two moons while he scoured the Stormlands and Dorne, on Lord Varys' informations, in search of his sister.

Eddard observed Robert for a few seconds. Would the Baratheon have agreed to his marriage with Cersei Lannister before he even knew of Lyanna's death? Certainly, it was not possible. But it was as if the Baratheon had been in a hurry to get engaged again, barely having received the news of his younger sister's death. The raven he had sent to King's Landing from Starfall, stronghold of the House Dayne, dated back to this period.

“Are there any other decisions I should know about or can we move on to the subject of the day?” Jon asked in a bitter tone.

The new Hand of the King had probably asked this question without waiting for a serious answer, but against all odds, he did get an answer from none other than Stannis Baratheon. At the far right of the table was Robert's little brother. If Eddard had not questioned his presence in the first place, the fact that he sat on the small council without a function to justify it had remained intriguing. Eddard had, however, been quick to suspect the reason.

“Well, since it came up to this point, I might as well say it. Now that Robert is Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Storm's End is left without a lord. I've discussed it with him. I want Storm's End. It belongs to me, by right. Please ratify this decision.”

Storm's End, the historic stronghold of the House Baratheon, and the stronghold of the Storm Kings of the House Durrandon before them. It was the administrative capital of the Stormlands and seat of their Lord Paramount.

“I see,” Jon Arryn pronounced simply. Eddard saw no surprise in his eyes, nor in the eyes of the other occupants of the room. Lord Tywin seemed indifferent while Grand Maester Pycelle looked at his feet. At the far left of the table sat his goodfather, Hoster Tully, lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident. When he received the expectant glances of the other lords and Robert, the man shrugged his shoulders as if to testify of his neutral agreement. He saw no conflict. When Jon and Stannis' eyes then crossed his, Eddard nodded naturally, receiving a satisfied look from Stannis. “Then I, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, announce that by the unanimous vote of the first small council of King Robert of the House Baratheon, First of his name, Lord Stannis of the House Baratheon is made Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

No one, and certainly not Eddard, had the audacity to dwell on the fact that the small councils did not grant the suzerainty of a kingdom or other fiefdoms so simply. The truth was that this meeting was not a small council. Dorne and the Reach aside, and now that Stannis had been inducted as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, all the Wardens and Lord Paramounts of the kingdom were here. It was a meeting of the victors. The six most powerful men in Westeros at that very moment were standing beside each other, deciding with an almost nonchalant phlegm what was to become of the fate of their countries and the tens of millions of their people.

Maester Pycelle, in his capacity as scribe, diligently took care to copy at word what Jon Arryn had announced. Eddard saw him adding numerous additional annotations, certainly for a later archival work. That was, after all, his job. The young Warden of the North could not ignore Stannis glorious and fulfilled expression. Nor did he ignore Robert's neutral, almost acrimonious expression. He knew that Robert didn't like Stannis very much and that he preferred their little brother Renly, just six years old, to him. Robert had told him many times of his wish to make Renly the lord of Storm's End after the war.

He didn't know why Robert had changed his mind, but like Jon Arryn, he couldn't help but feel relieved. Storm's End belonged rightfully to his inflexible defender. Not only did Stannis have the legitimacy of a commander, for having defended Storm's End for an entire year from a terrible siege of the Reach's forces, but he also had the legitimacy of the birthright.

Satisfied with the progress of the meeting, despite the unpleasant surprise embodied in the subject of the engagement between Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister and the disdain with which Lord Tywin had responded to them, his old mentor soon took the floor again to refocus the discussion on the agenda.

“The issue of Storm’s End and the Stormlands being resolved, now to the original subject of this meeting–“

“There's something else before that.”

It was Lord Hoster Tully who had just interrupted his eldest goodson rather rudely. With his eyes full of questions, like those of all the lords present, Jon Arryn remained silent to let his goodfather speak. The man let himself be desired, since he didn't immediately take the floor that was given to him, but Eddard quickly understood from his expression that he was thinking of his next words.

“The devastation in the Riverlands has been immeasurable. The towns of Stoney Sept, Harroway and Maidenpool were violently pillaged by the royal army and my banners reported the sacking of more than a dozen castles and their granaries along the Red Fork.”

“Get to the point, Lord Tully.” Robert suddenly intervened.

“The House Tully does not have the funds to provide for the needs of the disaster victims and to repair the damage. I wish the Riverlands and my house to be compensated by the Targaryen royal treasury. As war reparations. To the extent of one million golden dragons.”

Robert and Stannis's sceptical reactions were not long in coming, as their disbelieving looks demonstrated. Eddard knew they were attached to their funds, even if for two opposing reasons. Robert was a natural spendthrift where Stannis was reputed to be austere. Either way, they were thrifty. Jon Arryn remained relatively neutral. Perhaps it was Lord Tywin's reaction that was the most notable. The man had given way to a disdainful laugh.

“One million golden dragons? Lord Hoster, perhaps you should speak to your steward again.”

“No disrespect, Tywin Lannister, but you are no longer the Hand of the King.”

Hoster's line didn't wait. And the Tully was roundly urging his caller to be quiet. Eddard saw the Lannister look menacingly at his goodfather. The contempt the two lords had for each other was no longer a mystery. As with the Martells, Lord Tywin had proposed his younger son, Tyrion Lannister, a dwarf, for engagement to one of the Tully daughters in place of his older brother Jaime. And like the Martells before them, the Tullys had taken this proposal as an insult and had severed all relations with the Lannisters.

Robert's answer came very quickly, at the expense of Jon Arryn, whose opinion he had not consulted.

“Denied, Lord Tully. Review your numbers with your stewards. A million golden dragons, that’s absurd.”

Hoster Tully made a withdrawal and didn't respond. He stared at Robert and then at Lord Tywin, and then Eddard noticed that he looked at them succinctly, him and his mentor. He then allowed himself a line that cast a chill across the room and suddenly created a heavy tension.

“We have not devastated any cities or fortresses, nor have we stabbed our allies, our protégés, our prisoners or our suzerains in the back. You would do well to remember that it was trouts who stood by your side at the risk of their lives at the Trident, Your Grace, and not lions.”

Tywin Lannister immediately sat straight back in his seat, holding the gaze of the Lord Paramount of the Trident.

“Be very careful with the words you use from now on, Hoster Tully.”

The menacing glow in his eyes was clear and promised much retaliation if he dared to say more. Robert didn't seem to have taken the remark any better than his future Lannister goodfather, and he had a complicated expression, both insulted and uncertain. He and Jon shared an uncertain look. Stannis, meanwhile, seemed to have come out of his austere silence and remained on the alert.

Against all odds, Maester Pycelle was the one who tried to temper the atmosphere and prevent the situation from unfortunate outbursts.

“Your Grace…” he began in his honeyed voice before resuming in a deliberately slow tone. “Lord Tully seems to be mistaken… We might think he meant Lord Lannister to be a coward… Or a perjurer, which would be very hazardous for him, Lord Lannister being, like all of us here, a man of honour, always respectful–“

“Can someone explain to me again why this sinister lackey of the Mad King is here and opens his mouth so impetuously?” Hoster Tully suddenly cut him off.

Inflexible despite the tension and the stakes involved, the lord of Riverrun supported the gaze of Robert and Tywin Lannister. But he seemed to have heeded the warning of the lord of Casterly Rock and did not go any further, preferring to direct his animosity towards the former scribe of the House Targaryen. On the side, Pycelle seemed to grumble in his beard a few inaudible and uninteresting words, surely offended by the remark of the Lord Paramount of the Trident. In his defense, he had nevertheless succeeded in defeating the nascent conflict by his ridiculous intervention. Jon Arryn finally regained his role as a moderator, and tried to appease the already deep-rooted animosity with his wise words.

“Lord Tully, I understand your motives and they are not so unreasonable, but a little moderation, please…” the Lord of the Eyrie began in a diplomatic tone. He then turned to Robert and gave him a friendly and understanding look. “Your Grace, I apologize for Lord Tully's behavior. His demands are not unreasonable. You've seen it as we all have. The southern part of the Trident has suffered destruction unparalleled in the Seven Kingdoms. Without support, the House Tully, in addition to going into debt, could find itself in trouble with its vassals in the south, and the prolonged devastation of towns such as Maidenpool could also have very bad consequences for the economy of the regions north to the Trident as well, perhaps even for the Vale. If the royal treasury is not enough, we may be able to take out a loan at a preferential rate from the Iron Bank of Braavos. I am sure they would accept with a promise of partnership. The Mad King hated Braavos and it was mutual animosity.”

“Jon, a million fucking golden dragons!”

Robert's line was almost childish, but everyone could understand it. It wasn't a modest sum.

“Not responding to the distress of the Riverlands after two years of war could send the wrong signal to the people, Robert,” Jon replied in a soft tone. He had deliberately used his friend's first name, to echo his familiarity and make him understand that he was in no way seeking an antagonistic exchange. “If necessary, we can set up a reconstruction council to assess the costs. But I think it's the right thing to do. The decision is yours, Your Grace.”

Eddard felt the need to intervene at this time.

“Your Grace, I second the Hand's opinion. I agree with him in principle. If funding is too much of a problem, the North is prepared to commit to help the Riverlands and the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Just like the Vale.” Jon Arryn hastened to add after him.

Robert looked at them for a few seconds and then breathed a strong, almost theatrical sigh of resignation. He then swept the case aside with a wave of his hand.

“All right, you'll get your golden dragons. There's no way my image will be tarnished like that of the Mad King. I'll leave that to you, Jon.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Hoster Tully humbly pronounced, leaning slightly forward to pay his respects. He seemed quite satisfied.

Tywin Lannister, on the other hand, didn't seem to be in the least satisfied, but he didn't seem to want to protest either. Stannis, meanwhile, remained silent. He seemed to have seen the value in Jon Arryn's arguments and stuck to them. A strange silence settled for a few seconds, while Maester Pycelle's inked pen worked the paper, saving for posterity all that was said at the time. And then, as if this discussion had not taken place, as if the camouflage of the lord of Riverrun to the lord of Casterly Rock had not been sent in such a scathing manner, the course of the meeting restarted at Jon Arryn's ceremonial injunction.

But it was futile for Eddard to believe that this so-called first small council of the Seven Kingdoms would end so well. For when the final subject of the meeting fell, the situation soon became unpredictable and uncontrollable. And above all, it overwhelmed him more than any other.

“You want to entrust the management of Dragonstone… _to the North_?”

That was the incredulous voice of Tywin Lannister. The way he had pronounced it should have offended Eddard, but he couldn't help but agree. The discussion had focused primarily on the issues surrounding the installation of the siege of the Isle of Dragonstone and the islands of the Lords of the Narrow Sea, notably Driftmark and Claw Isle. The deposed Queen Rhaella Targaryen and her son, the deposed Crown Prince Viserys Targaryen, took refuge there, jealously protected by Houses Velaryon and Celtigar. The ravens that had been sent to them to surrender and hand over Queen Rhaella and her child had never returned.

The discussion had then taken a strange turn following a comment by Maester Pycelle on the possible abolition of the autonomy of the Lords of the Narrow Sea and the attachment of the Valyrian fiefdoms to the Crownlands. And as things led to others, Robert decided to entrust him with their suzerainty.

“Not to the North, Lord Tywin, to the Starks. I want Ned to be Lord of Dragonstone. His family has suffered greatly at the hands of the Targaryens, it's only fair to give the Starks what were rightfully theirs.”

Despite everything that had happened, despite the uneasiness he now felt around Robert, Eddard could not help but be touched by his friend's affection. The man cherished their friendship without setting any limits. But this was too much.

“Robert,” Eddard intervened immediately. “I understand your enthusiasm, and I'm flattered by it, really. But it's absolutely not reasonable.”

“I agree,” Jon supported him immediately. “Robert, this is not possible. Dragonstone is a subdivision like the North. Eddard is now Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. To appoint a Warden over two sovereign regions is unrealistic.”

“I want the Targaryens to pay for what they did. They took Lyanna, our friends and your family from us, Ned, so I'll take their kingdom and you take their damn fiefdom. I've seen it that way from the beginning.” Robert continued, half ignoring Jon's line to focus on him.

The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell saw his friend's stubborn gaze without any difficulty. The man clung hard to his idea.

“I'm from the North, Robert, not the south. I wouldn't even know what to do with these islands.”

Frustration was on the young king's face. Strangely, Lord Stannis, of all of them, remained impassive. Lord Tywin, meanwhile, seemed extremely upset. Jon Arryn seemed uneasy about their king's eccentricities. But before any of them could even intervene, Robert seemed to reach for the epiphany, judging by the glow in his eyes.

“If you can't handle it because you're from the North, why don't you give it to your bastard who's from the south!”

Eddard didn't even have to turn his head to find out what kind of a head his stepfather made of the proposal. As for Lord Tywin and Jon Arryn, both were even more incredulous than before, the former using the same kind of outraged expression as his Tully neighbour.

“If this is a joke, it's not at all funny, King Robert.”

The Lannister's sharp reaction had not waited, but Robert's response was equally quick and sharp.

“Do I look like I'm joking?”

Eddard didn't even know what to say. In fact, he didn't dare to say anything. The worst possible situation had just come to pass: the small council was dealing with his little Jon. And in the worst possible way. It was as if the gods were laughing at him. Shocked, Eddard was at that moment very much the embodiment of what he was known for. He remained taciturn and reserved.

And it all happened very quickly, like the storm.

“Your Grace… Perhaps, if I may, you should reconsider… It would be extremely unwise, regarding the laws of the Realm, to declare such a low-born lord of such a princely place, especially since—“

“ _Such a low-born_? Ned Stark's son with Ashara Dayne, _such a low-born_? Are you insulting my friend in front of me with your honeyed words, Pycelle?”

“No, Your Grace. I was humbly pointing out that entrusting a fief to an illegitimate child at the expense of, let's say, more suitable candidates, would upset a certain number of lords…”

“How do you think my family was born, Pycelle? My ancestor was said to be the bastard half-brother of the Conqueror. Do you think I give a shit about bastardy?”

“No, Your Grace… But it would be frowned upon to give the princely fief, traditionally given to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, to—“

“I don't need to know what this island means to the Targaryens, I shit on the Targaryens!”

Eddard felt his mentor's intrigued gaze fall on him and felt a cold sweat freeze on his spine. The one outraged from Hoster Tully. “ _Lyanna…_ ” He invoked his sister's name in his spirit like a prayer. Eddard knew he had to pull himself together, but the fact was that he was caught short and didn't know how to lie. He knew his limits and the worst was yet to come. The worst was yet to come, if he couldn't keep up appearances. And talking now was the best way to make others suspicious, even more than not talking. But he decided to stay brave and not keep his eyes down.

Jon Arryn, who had been observing him until then, seemed to interpret his attitude as a modest reticence and stepped in.

“Robert… Perhaps would it be wiser to listen to maester Pycelle and reconsider our options. Conferring suzerainty of the valyrian strongholds to Ned's son… Such possession should fall to Stannis.”

“To lose Storm’s End? Lord Arryn, you're delirious. I don't want this dismal stone.”

Lord Stannis's answer had the merit of being clear. But the attention of the room was no longer on Eddard and his little Jon.

“In that case, a Redwyne could be in charge…” the lord of the Eyrie shackled then.

“This is even crazier,” the Lord of Storm’s End answered again. “I refuse that one of those cowards of the Reach who besieged me for a year locks the Blackwater Bay. If you care so much about this stone, then tie it back to the Vale.”

Jon Arryn was not offended by Lord Stannis' lack of decorum to any great extent, but his lack of cooperation was playing on his patience. It was clear that the attachment of Dragonstone and its dependencies to the Vale was nonsense.

“Are you all really debating the suzerainty over the Narrow Sea?” Tywin Lannister suddenly intervened in a brittle tone. “These lands belong to the Crownlands. Now that the Targaryens are no more, their autonomy is no longer relevant and there is no reason to entrust their management to a Stark, or a Redwyne, nor anyone else but a member of the royal family.”

And naturally to Pycelle to support him, as he strangely seemed to make a specialty out of it.

“Lord Lannister speaks truly, my lords. Logically, um… the Island of Dragonstone should belong to His Grace's rightful son and heir with Lady Cersei.” the Maester humbly intervened.

“So that his mother can whisper in his ear about the way ahead and hold me by the balls while I rule? You're dreaming! And you more so, Lord Tywin! This island will go to Ned Stark's bastard and you'll have your queen, so don't argue with me, I'm the King, I decide!”

Robert's insulting words were the words too many. Annoyed by his attitude, Tywin got up from his chair without saying anything and withdrew before the confused looks of his peers. When Robert realized that the man was responding to his demands with an empty chair, he immediately went into a rage.

“Come back here, Tywin Lannister! I have not allowed you to leave!” he shouted as he rose to his feet, his harangue being accompanied by an imperious finger pointing imperiously in his direction. But Tywin didn't even deign to turn around and didn't answer, and walked out of the room. Red came to Robert's face as the outrage seemed to overwhelm him. “Ah! Pestilence be upon this man!”

Meanwhile, Hoster Tully stared at him dismissively. Eddard knew the man hadn't digested the fact that “Ned Stark's bastard son” had been brought to the negotiating table in front of him. The Tullys were prideful individuals. It wasn't long before the Lord Paramount of the Trident voiced his opposition.

“Your Grace, I do insist that you reconsider your decision. You cannot cede the suzerainty of the Narrow Sea to a mere bastard.”

Robert frowned. Turned away from his burgeoning anger, his tone was no less dry.

“I can and I will. Aren't your golden dragons enough for you? Must you also challenge my decisions, Lord Tully?”

What could Eddard do now that Lord Tywin was gone? He hesitated. He couldn't afford to strain his relationship with Hoster Tully, father of his wife Catelyn. But he didn't want to escalate the situation and put his little Jon at risk. Dragonstone was the stronghold of Rhaegar Targaryen, and to even remotely link Jon to the Dragon Prince was an immense risk. Every second of reflection devoted to the infant by Robert or anyone else was a risk.

“Perhaps it would be wise to listen to Ned's opinion. You didn't ask him.”

“Well, let's hear him then. Ned. What do you think? Your bastard, on Dragonstone. I'll make him a Stark if that's your problem.”

Eddard turned his head towards Jon, taken aback. Then towards his stepfather Tully, whose vindictive gaze he reluctantly confronted. Then again towards Jon and Robert.

“Robert, really… I don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know, Lord Stark? Answer the question!”

Hoster Tully's imposing voice had almost cut him off, so quick had his response been.

“It's too sudden. I can't answer so hastily!”

“Because you're seriously considering the proposition? Seven Hells! You've got to be kidding me! How can you further dishonour my daughter, this is an outrage! This bastard shouldn't exist, and you are considering on top of—“

Hoster Tully had risen to his feet as he spoke, his indignation rising to a crescendo. But he suddenly stopped, as if he realized the yellings were in vain. Or maybe it was because of something else. Nevertheless, he remained silent for a few seconds.

“No. That's enough. I can take no more,” he said simply, before turning to their king. He didn't care for Robert any more than he did for him, judging by the way he looked at him. But he remained respectful when he spoke to Robert. “King Robert, I humbly ask your permission to withdraw.”

Robert looked uncertain about Hoster Tully's attitude and came to seek the silent advice of Jon Arryn. Arryn looked at the young king, who then nodded to Tully.

“Granted.” he said simply.

Without even claiming his due, Hoster Tully turned and left the room as promptly as Tywin Lannister before him. Robert let out a tired sigh and sat down heavily in his seat under the sad gaze of their mentor. Stannis Baratheon, however, seemed relatively indifferent to the unfolding situation.

Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, signaling his intention to intervene.

“Your Grace, if I may—“

“Knock it off, you chattering old jackal, or I'll cut out your tongue.” Robert suddenly exclaimed. Everyone looked at him with a surprised look on their faces. Pycelle's expression could have been hilarious if it wasn't for the current situation. Robert didn't let him marinate in uncertainty for long. “Besides, out.”

The Maester looked at them for a moment, confused.

“Your Grace, without a scribe in the presence of—“

“I said out!”

Robert's scream was accompanied by a sharp blow against the table. The gesture was so violent that Eddard swore he felt the walls shake. Naturally, frightened by the unpredictable anger of their king, Pycelle got up in a hurry, as if he had just regained his youth, and simply fled. He gave them all a quick nod and disappeared into the corridor.

“Cursed be all these sons of whores!”

Robert's reply marked the coming of silence. A silence that none of them intended to break during the long minute that followed. Robert let his face rest in his hands, while he stood leaning on his seat. He looked prostrate, but that was understandable. The silence lasted until Lord Stannis decided to state the obvious.

“This meeting is a mess.”

He got the credit for wrenching a nervous laugh out of his older brother. Eddard felt Jon Arryn's gaze, which he respectfully returned, and then Jon Arryn turned to the Lord of Storm's End.

“Lord Stannis, if I might, you don't seem to mind seeing Ned's son on Dragonstone. Why so?”

Then his mentor noticed it, too. Eddard realized he hadn't hallucinated. Lord Stannis seemed genuinely supportive of Robert's idea. The latter was watching his younger brother with interest. Seeing that his peers were waiting for an answer, the Baratheon cadet finally gave it to them.

“Why not? It seems obvious to me.” he began with an austere look.

Eddard, however, found it difficult to see the obvious in this absurd idea.

“Unlike those two, I think it's a smart move. Beyond sullying the honour of the Targaryens and their cousin houses, whose fate does not concern me, the fact remains that the area must be controlled by a man we can trust. As Robert said, the North has not been properly rewarded despite the fact that they have invested the most in this war. Putting a Stark on the lock on the Blackwater Bay means stability in the region. He shall be loyal to the King.”

He and Jon looked at each other. The Warden of the East looked even less convinced than he was.

“It seems very risky to me…” his mentor replied. “I don't see a shadow of stability on the horizon with such a decision. The Lords of the Narrow Sea will never forgive us.”

“If they know what's good for them, they'll drop the case and be indebted to us for still being alive. When I talked about stability, I wasn't talking about them.”

“Who else then?”

“The people, quite simply, Lord Arryn. You are not unaware of the many clans of First Men in the Crackclaw Point valleys. Do you think the Velaryons or the Celtigars have any hold over this region? Is there anyone better than a Stark, bastard or not, to pacify it and bring it back in the realm?”

Jon Arryn leaned back on his seat and held his chin in his right hand, immersed in his thoughts. Maybe it made sense, Eddard could recognize it, but it wasn't enough of an argument to convince him to accept the offer.

“Should I assume you were aware of this all along, Lord Stannis?” Jon Arryn asked.

The Stark was very attentive to that question. If Jon Arryn had been right, the relationship between Robert and his younger brother had definitely changed. The gift of Storm’s End could explain his alignment.

“That is correct,” the young Baratheon replied simply. He then looked at him for a moment before continuing. “Not in detail. The bastard wasn't in the equation. But that doesn't change anything.”

“Queen Rhaella will never accept such an outrage…” Jon Arryn whispered softly.

“Because you expect her to survive the siege, Jon?” Robert intervened suddenly.

The three men present looked at him. The realization of what the eldest of the Baratheons had implied gradually came to them. Eddard immediately felt the disgust overwhelming him.

“Robert, you can't be serious!” he exclaimed in an indignant tone. “The murders of Princess Elia and her children weren't enough for you?!”

“Ned, when are you going to realize that this is a war? A war!”

“But this war is over, damn it!”

“No, this war is not over. Dragonstone still stands, and Targaryens still live! How long do you want this kingdom to keep burning Ned? How many more deaths for the lives of three miserable incest offsprings!?”

Robert's stubbornness was terrifying. He could no longer recognize his friend. And he thought he had found him again somewhat when he returned to King's Landing, but Eddard knew he could never bring himself to tolerate the murder of innocents, even for the so-called greater good. Robert obviously did not have the same point of view. The man still seemed to be devoured by his hatred of the Targaryen dynasty, or was he devoured by his new ambitions. Either way, it was insanity. Pure cruelty. And the death of Lyanna and all the others only served to reinforce his macabre convictions.

“This is a mother and her son!” he almost spat out with indignation. “By all the gods, she's pregnant, Robert!”

“Precisely.” Robert replied aggressively. "I don't need any more pretenders. And of them, that damned incestuous queen has already laid enough!”

“So that's it? You're going to build the legitimacy of your reign on the slaughter of women and children?”

“Not women and children, Ned. Nothing but pretenders.”

The Usurper, that's what their loyalist enemies were already calling him. And at that moment more than ever, as a gleam of hatred burned into his blue eyes, Eddard saw some truth in it.

And he thought of Lyanna. Brandon. Their father Rickard. He even thought of Rhaegar Targaryen. Were they all dead for nothing?

* * *

**THE CRANNOGMAN**

“Accept the offer.”

Howland Reed was not surprised by Arthur Dayne's quick response. To be honest with himself, Howland would actually have been surprised by the opposite. In spite of what everyone had believed, in spite of what everyone had naively accepted, the Kingsguard Arthur Dayne had never broken his oath, and it was in contrary Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister that had outrageously broken it.

The first had been honourably defeated at the Battle of the Trident before being carefully treated. Having shown clemency towards him and noting the death of his prince, Ser Barristan bent his knee before King Robert. The confusion caused by the defeat and by his injuries must have clouded his judgment as he bent the knee and broke his oath while members of House Targaryen were still alive.

The second had broken his oath in a less honourable manner, putting the king to death as if he had been a beast. Some would say Ser Jaime was a Lannister, and that he had his father's cruelty in his blood. Some even said that he knowingly allowed the bannermen Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch to slaughter Princess Elia and her family. Logically, such perjury should have been grounds for immediate death… but indignities such as Robert Baratheon's acts of clemency were of variable geometry.

Still, Ser Arthur Dayne, despite his initial affiliation, inspired a solid confidence in him. He was not alone. When Lord Eddard and their five other companions, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, Ser Martyn Cassel, Ser Mark Ryswell and Lord William Dustin, and he had arrived at the Tower of Joy, where Lyanna Stark was supposedly detained, Ser Arthur Dayne had not been the only one to defend the place. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent stood by their sworn brother side. The three men could have put them in trouble and several would undoubtedly have perished in the ensuing battle. But rather than fighting, they had found the dialogue more beneficial to all. If the two men had not found a way to reach Dragonstone, as the island was under a major blockade by the Allied fleet, then they must already have been in Essos.

The harsh reality was that, knowing these facts, they were already conspiring when King Robert had not even been crowned yet.

“Certainly not.”

Lord Eddard's voice echoed through the tent. Taking great care not to be spied upon by curious uninvited guests, Lord Eddard had invited him and Arthur Dayne into his tent. The man jealously guarded little Jon in his arms. The infant was calm and watched them with his bright violet eyes.

“This is a great opportunity.”

“It's not an opportunity, it's a poisoned gift! Every second this child occupies in the thoughts of Robert or someone too perceptive is one second too many. And you want to make him the liege lord of Dragonstone? You are out of your mind, Ser Arthur.”

The face of the intrepid Kingsguard looked pensive. By dint of being in his presence, Howland was beginning to know his expressions, and he knew that the expression of the Sword of the Morning showed little anxiety.

“Think about it, Lord Stark. What you've brought us cannot be ignored. It may even be a blessing for us.”

“How is that a blessing?”

“Because in his obsession to plunder the legacy of Prince Rhaegar, the Usurper…”

“Don't call him that!” Eddard immediately interrupted with a dry tone.

Ser Arthur Dayne didn't seem to appreciate Lord Eddard interrupting him. He ignored it, and resumed.

“…the _King_ is ready to place it in his son's hands.”

“You're not answering the question, Ser Arthur. I still don't see why it's “a blessing”!”

“That's a blessing, because it brings Prince Aegon closer to the only real support he'll ever truly have. The Velaryons. The Celtigars. The Lords of the Narrow Sea. The Loyalists.”

“Because you also want to spread the secret of his lineage? You're completely irresponsible in addition to being suicidal.”

“Lord Stark. A secret this big will come out eventually. Too many people already know about it. My sister's servants, who agreed to pass her off as his mother. Your companions, the three of us here. You can't hide his identity forever. He's the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, the heir to the Iron Throne, it's already a deep blow to his honour to pass him off as your bastard. He is not destined to remain hidden, to spend his life in the North and suffer the contempt of your bannermen and your people. He is destined for greatness.”

“He's Lyanna's son. He's from the north.”

“He's not from the north, he's a Targaryen! You can't deny him his inheritance, not when it's handed to him on a silver platter! That would be a sacrilege!”

Howland looked at little Jon. Or Ægon, as his parents named him. When one knew the truth or suspected the extent of it, it was undeniable. His eyes were those of Rhaegar Targaryen. Howland looked at Ser Arthur, and saw his determined expression. But a single glance at Eddard was enough to detect his scepticism. The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell seemed unyielding.

“If you didn't want to take on his legacy, you shouldn't have taken him with you and had us take him to Essos.”

“You know very well it wasn't possible. He's my blood, and I promised his mother I'd protect him.”

Arthur Dayne growled in frustration at Lord Eddard's inflexible attitude.

“Your stubbornness makes me sick. I'll tell you just one thing, Eddard,” exclaimed the Dayne. Howland immediately remarked that it was the first time Arthur Dayne had addressed his lord in such a familiar manner. The concerned man had raised his eyebrows as well.

“For Lady Lyanna, the question never arose. Neither when she had to flee south with Rhaegar, nor when they got married at Summerhall, not even when they had to escape from Ashford. And even less when she gave birth to him. She named him Ægon. Ægon Targaryen. The name of the Greatest that ever was. If you wish to honour your sister's wish, then honour it to the end. She didn't give birth to a bastard. She gave birth to a king.”

* * *

**THE DYING QUEEN**

**284**

Rhaella Targaryen had seen her prestigious family collapse before her very eyes. From the tournament in Harrenhal three years ago, where it all began, until today, when the Island of Dragonstone was dying under a terrible siege. All her years she had seen the madness of Aerys, her brother and husband, gnawing at his soul until there was nothing human left of him. She had watched her many children perish one after the other, most of them born weak or stillborn. She had seen her eldest son Rhaegar leave for the north and never return. He had died at the Trident, she had been told. She had not even been able to stay with her dear Elia and her adorable grandchildren. In his paranoia, Aerys thought that keeping Elia and her children as hostages in the capital would keep the principality of Dorne in his bosom. Aerys suspected the Martells of being traitors, just as he had suspected the whole world of treachery. Now even Elia and her grandchildren were dead. A gruesome death that had left her even more weakened than she already was. She had felt her body abandon her, despair permeating her muscles, her flesh and her lungs.

To prevent their eradication, the Celtigar and Velaryon houses had been forced to bend the knee before the Usurper. Six moons of fierce maritime resistance had seen the disappearance of many of their people and almost their entire fleet. The two hundred triremes of the mighty Velaryon fleet were no more. What would happen now? After Driftmark and Claw Isle had surrendered? Rhaella knew it in her heart. That monstrous deer and its bloodthirsty banners would slaughter her. They would rape her again and again until she felt no pain, finish her off like a beast and then desecrate her remains. Rhaella no longer had the strength to fight. She was tired. But still, for her adorable little Viserys, her little King, she had to. For him, and for the adorable little creature who was just waiting to take its first breath. _Please don't let it be stillborn like all the others._ She had prayed long and hard. For him, or for her, she had to hold on a little longer.

“Push, Your Highness! Push!”

And Rhaella pushed as hard as her body would allow. The young Laena Velaryon, one of her faithful lady-in-waiting, calmly assisted her. She had only requested her presence. Rhaella felt the tears streaming down her face, but she held on despite the horrible pain that was stabbing her. She had never felt such pain before, despite her many deliveries, and her cries of suffering seemed to find an echo in the distance. With each cry, each push, each time she felt her baby forcing its way, the thunder roared like a dragon. Her water had broken when the storm had begun. And the ten hours of painful labor she had gone through since then had turned the storm into a real typhoon.

The roaring echoes of lightning shook the air like the earth. The dark walls of Dragonstone's fortress then lit up succinctly, as if to urge her to fight. And then Rhaella Targaryen fought. She screamed, whole parts of her body abandoning her as the sweat mingled with the blood. But she fought as she had always fought.

“That's great, Your Highness! Keep going, I can see the head!”

With each thunderclap, with each terrifying flash, various moments of her life came back to her. The smile of her adorable Rhaegar. The tears of her little Viserys. The laughters of Aerys. The screams of the late Lord Rickard Stark… The raven announcing Rhaegar's death… Then the one announcing the death of Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys. The death of Ashara, who died in childbirth at Starfall. She realized she couldn't feel her legs, then she felt the pain leave her as the thunder subsided.

But just as clearly as the typhoon before, a small cry suddenly entered the room. Then two, then three. And then more. Rhaella felt warm tears streaming down her cheeks again. And Laena, looking both delighted and defeated, came to her with the flesh of her flesh.

“Congratulations, Your Highness… It's a girl.”

Laena was crying. Rhaella knew why. She had come to understand it in the last few hours, as the pain was cutting through her body like a dagger. She had already delivered many babies. The blood soaked the sheets more than usual. Words were no longer necessary. She had just been content to stay strong, for her incredible little Valyrian beauty.

She wasn't a stillborn, like many of her brothers and sisters before her. She was not half decomposed, dressed in scales and small reptilian wings. She was alive, panting like the adorable little creature that she was. She seemed to respond to the storm. Smiling, Rhaella moved her head as close as her body would allow, her daughter resting on the pillow. She was beautiful, a little silvery down already reflecting where a proud dragon's hair would one day stand. And then Rhaella lost herself in her eyes. Her beautiful eyes, so deep and vivid purple that they seemed to shimmer with magic.

The girl born of the typhoon, in torment and love. She was like a jewel in the heart of the storm.

“Daenerys… Her name will be Daenerys Targaryen.”

Her daughter's eyes fixed on her own as her crying stopped. Slowly, Rhaella came to bathe in them, lulled by their deep colour, letting the melody that emanated from them take her. She could feel the dark circles under her eyes telling her to close them, while her entrails called for rest. And while her friend was crying beside them, peacefully, Rhaella fell asleep.

And she dreamed of Dragon Lords with dark or silver hair and magic-soaked eyes, riding their gigantic coloured mounts, dancing in the skies.

It was a beautiful dream.

* * *

**THE OLD MAN OF THE VALE**

Jon Arryn contemplated with melancholy the shores of the Island of Dragonstone. Despite his advanced age, Jon had not traveled much in his life. He had succeeded his father's death as lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, and since then had led a modest and austere life. His first two wives, Lady Jeyne Royce and Lady Rowena Arryn, had died of illness without giving him a heir, which had always plunged Jon Arryn into a perpetual worry about the future of his house. He had once placed his hopes in Elbert and then Denys Arryn, his young and vigorous cadets. The former, his dear nephew, was executed by the Mad King alongside the young Brandon Stark, and the latter, his brave cousin, was tragically killed in battle by Lord Jon Connington, at the height of the war, at the end of the Battle of the Bells. The fate of the House Arryn and its vacillating influence on the Vale had never allowed Jon Arryn to concentrate much of his time on his most enjoyable hobbies, and the Seven knew how much Jon would have enjoyed travelling. So he had been content to let his spirit travel, thanks to the many books he had in his possession.

The Island of Dragonstone was such as books had often portrayed it. It was a very large island, whose slope exposed to Essos was bordered by high and vertiginous cliffs, as if to respond to the eccentricities and immensity of the East. The slope exposed to Westeros was low, smooth and calm. Its beaches were made of white sand and the vegetation was, in some places, almost luxuriant. The Island seemed to be marked by a duality, a warm, temperate and wooded side, and a colder and devoid of superfluous vegetation, oceanic side. It was an island in the image of its ancestral occupants. It was not clear in the books when the Targaryen arrived on Dragonstone, but the maesters agreed to give credit to a certain Aenar, Dragon Lord of Old Valyria, for the settlement of their powerful family on this place.

Unlike the Island of Driftmarck, further southwest, Dragonstone was a fairly sparsely populated island. Its undeniable beauty did not make it any more welcoming and the weather was not the most cooperative. Like the rest, it was like the island, sometimes pleasant and even clearly summery: the water was so clear and warm that it was far too attractive and pleasant not to swim in it. But often the weather was chaotic or even terrible, full of irrational and murderous fury. As Jon had found out only two weeks ago. The Allied fleet had lost more than half of its ships during an unpredictable typhoon. It was said that the Admiralty had not seen the storm coming, which had been even more sudden than those hitting Storm's End or the Isle of Tarth. In less than an hour, the storm had grown to an unprecedented magnitude and had swept more than ten thousand men in its wake. Never in almost three years of war had the coalition suffered such a loss.

The typhoon, however, had allowed several Targaryen ships to escape eastward, apparently including Queen Rhaella's children. The fallen queen had died giving birth to a daughter. The news had sounded the death knell for the island. In a fit of rage, Robert ordered an assault, and the following week the coalition set foot on the white beaches of the northwestern slope. The garrison in the harbour town of Dragonstone, which the locals called Dragon Port, could do nothing. There were not even a thousand of them, and the overcrowding during the landing had left them helpless. Seeing the massive arrival of the rebels, the locals as well as the defenders of the island had withdrawn in panic to the fortress of Dragonstone. They had bravely held on. But for some obscure reasons, the occupants of the fortress had raised the white flag when they announced their arrival on the island. They then opened the gates in full view of the royal delegation.

As Jon Arryn walked through the dark gates of the fortress, he realized that the books did not do justice to what he saw. Dragonstone was even more incredible. The architectural influence of the Targaryen Dynasty and Old Valyria was beyond compare in these historic places. The walls made of dark stone, almost black in many places, were high and very angular. The walls were tangled with external attics with sharp shapes, such as dragon claws or teeth. The castle and its dungeon were themselves reminiscent of these shapes, and were among the largest castles Jon Arryn had ever seen. It was a grand sight and a great moment of discovery.

The sight of the occupants of the citadel took care to nuance his mischievous state of curiosity. As soon as he and the other members of the delegation had set foot on the ground, abandoning their horses or their comfortable carriages, they faced the misery of the siege. A few soldiers in a shabby state stood there, still hesitant and, above all, terrified, but the vast majority were women and children. They all wore rags, all seemed to be suffering from hunger and fatigue. Dragonstone had been besieged and blockaded for more than six moons, so it was normal that these poor souls would suffer. Jon was quick to swallow his feelings of pity at the sight of them and felt relieved to see that the Allied troops who were quietly storming the citadel were coming to their aid rather than to their ruin. These little people had already suffered enough, and the sacking would have been a sad and useless cruelty to add to Robert's already stained banner.

The latter marched in front of him, accompanied by several of his generals. Eddard was among them, along with several other Northern dignitaries. Seeing Eddard and Robert in such a position inspired immense pride in Jon, almost making him forget the anguish of his dying bloodline. Eddard and Robert were like sons to him and he was incredibly touched to see the young green boys he had once welcomed become such honourable and courageous men.

After a tour of the site, the delegation finally crossed the walls on the south side of the citadel, passing through a passage called the Dragon's Tail. They ended up in a very large garden in which many large fruit trees, such as chestnut and rosehips, grew. In the background lay a kind of swamp or pond around which swarmed ferns and rosebushes, and at the edge of which stood what everyone humbly recognized as a huge weirwood. The heart tree stood there and watched them with its strangely laughing face, as if out of place. In spite of the multi-century-old Valyrian presence of the Targaryen, it had never been cut down as the Andals had done with those of southern Westeros during their invasions of the ancient times. Jon saw the admiring gaze of Eddard, who had frozen at his sight. The whitish trunk of the thousand-year-old tree alone dominated the pond, while its bony branches and reddish foliage stretched over the place, distorting the light to give it that typical supernatural halo that seemed to drive the men of the North mad with contemplation.

“This place reeks of dragon, but this, my friend, is a sign from these Old Gods of yours.” Robert commented with amusement after noticing Ned's haggard look.

It wasn't unique to Ned. His banners also seemed to admire the tree, and seemed as if they were immersed in prayers. Around them, the other dignitaries of the delegation watched them, some with disdain and others with amusement. For most of the Andals and other peoples of the south, the northerners belief in the Old Gods was for many a sign of their supposedly primitive culture but also an extension of the mysteries that surrounded them and their mystical country.

“Let's move on.” Robert exclaimed, and they all resumed their march, rushing into the castle.

Climbing up the numerous staircases, crossing room after room, discovering the incredible decorations of the corridors, the numerous obsidian statues depicting dragons, wyverns and basilisks, they quickly reached the famous throne room, from which they passed through the high and thick stone doors. The hall was very large and the ceiling so high that it was difficult to perceive it. The light was reflected on the floor from diffuse rays coming from the loopholes on the sides, hidden by strange vertical stone parapets placed in battlements. A large triangular opening at the back of the room opened onto a terrace.

But more than that, what attracted all their attention was none other than the imposing throne of obsidian at the back of the room, which obstructed the opening of the rear. Sitting slightly high on a platform, it stood against a strange giant block of obsidian arranged at an angle, perhaps in the image of a sharp mountain, perhaps in the image of an oceanic breaking wave, perhaps in the image of a dragon's back… Jon was not sure. The throne seemed to be embedded in the block of volcanic rock.

The throne of Ægon the Conqueror. The one he sat on before the Iron Throne ever existed. The one on which his sister-wives had lasciviously leaned, caressing their brother-husband and defying all the unshakeable morals of the Andals of that era. This room, in its strange sobriety despite its apparent splendour, symbolised all the Valyrian audacity of the Dragon Lords of the ancient times.

Then he followed Eddard and Robert, who went around the block to his right to reach the terrace outside. He saw them leaning against the marbled edges of the balcony, silently observing the Island of Dragonstone that laid in front of them. Eddard seemed immersed in great reflection, and Robert was waiting for him to speak.

“It's a beautiful island. It's nothing like the dreary island Stannis mentioned.”

“There's even one of your sacred trees. What more do you need, Ned? I've put my offer on hold, but it won't last forever. You wanted to come here on your own to see the place. Now I want your answer.”

Eddard was watching him and Robert. Then he returned to his contemplation of the island. A few seconds passed, but finally a thin smile stretched across his lips. He turned to them and honoured them with a humble acquiescence, looking almost relieved.

“I accept,” he declared before the silence returned. Then his Stark gray eyes gleamed with pride. “Jon will be Lord of Dragonstone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> As you have without a doubt guessed, this story is a translation from my French fanfiction « Le Prince de Peyredragon ». 
> 
> I am quite unsure of its quality, but the reactions of some English-speaking readers on the French version and the wise advices of some of my friends, Bbj777 and Lexias, made me start it. That chapter was a test and it makes me anxious.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed what you read. Feel free to tell me if you didn't, and especially don't hesitate to tell me if there are any mistakes or nonsense. I am French, English is therefore not my native language, and you must have heard about our reluctance to master any language other than our own.
> 
> Finally, if some of you have free time and experience, I would be delighted to have an English-speaking beta-reader to send my texts to beforehand, so that I don't submit nonsensical chapters. So... there you go.
> 
> The next three chapters should come soon enough. Well, maybe a little slower than expected if an English-speaking beta-reader comes and finds more mistakes in my translations than I initially thought. But they will be published anyway.
> 
> Until next time,  
>  And don't hesitate to leave me a comment, it will please me very much,  
>  Etsukazu


	2. A Prince in the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction to the banners of the North.

**THE HIDDEN PRINCE**

**289**

Jon watched the shadows of the ancestral crypts of Winterfell substituting for each other as in his dream. They were playing with the statues of the Winter Lords as he stared with his violet eyes into the dark and almost imperceptible distance of the tunnels. Here and there, several of the stone statues were staring and haunting him like ghosts, while others did not even appear to notice his presence. From their stone eyes emanated, for some of them, a sadness frozen for all eternity. No matter what angle he looked at them from, the flames of the burning torches fixed to the walls drew these long, deformed and sinister human figures on the ground, but not sinister enough to inspire the terror he had been expecting to feel for many minutes, if not hours. Jon realized again that the shadow effects and the glow of the torches did not match the nightmares he had experienced so many times in the last few weeks.

Jon remembered the darkness and the cold that gripped him so breathtakingly, always hanging over his back and freezing his spine. He remembered the fear that drove him to go deeper and deeper into the depths of the cave without being able to reach the end. The cave was getting narrower and narrower and darker and darker. Terror was hugging him more and more and he felt the adrenaline possessing him as he speeded up his course. He didn't know why he was still running, for nothing seemed to pursue him so zealously. But he knew he was afraid. And every time he turned around, he saw darkness, clouded with stars, he saw the darkness of the void, bottomless, ravenous for light. He knew he had to run. His fear could be irrational, but he trusted it and let it take him. He preferred it to the darkness. So he fled, and fled, descending deeper and deeper, and the frozen air heated exponentially to the point of suffocating him with heat, while the darkness slowly dissipated and the shadows were devoured by penumbra. He didn't understand this part of his dream, but he knew that the lights didn't come from above like those of the sky or the torches in the old crypts. They came from the depths and they showed him salvation.

Jon soon realized that the crypts were, alas, coming to an end. He had been exploring them over the past few weeks, searching for every nook and cranny, looking for the slightest access to some lower levels, but his successive explorations had always come to nothing: Winterfell's third basement did not open up to a possible fourth. Maester Luwin used to say that Winterfell had been built on huge underground cavities where the heat of the underworld reigned and where the waters of the centre of the world were boiling. _“The mighty emanations of the world rise up from the earth. The rocks struggle and merge like the titans of the ancient times, and their activities warm the castle.”_ he had said in one of their many morning lessons. To his great frustration, Jon had sought in vain to gain access to these places of boiling water and liquefying fire.

His brother Robb had never been particularly interested in theoretical lessons and the history of the castle, preferring practical lessons, but Jon had always been deeply captivated by the past of their family, their country and the Seven Kingdoms, by the legends told to them by Old Nan before they went to bed or when they ate at supper. _“Once, when dragons were flying in the skies and the sun was shining on their scales of gold and silver, Vermax, the mighty dragon of the Crown Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, laid countless eggs under the castle, in the deep bowels of the earth, in the magma and in the boiling water of our good hot springs, the same ones that bless us in those great stone walls with mild and warm winters.”_

Old Nan always had incredible stories to share with them, about the Children of the Forest and the First Men of ancient times, about the Giants who carried the world in their arms or in their eyes, about the frightening Others and the monstrous and gigantic ice spiders they rode. But most of all, the stories about the fire and the dragons had always made his wolf's blood boil with interest. For in the confusion and inspiration of these tales and legends, these tales from two centuries ago, the images of his dreams kept coming back to him: dreams of fire, dreams of skies and clouds, dreams where he saw huge dragons intertwining into strange dances over the seas and the lands.

Father used to tease him often by calling him Jon the Dreamer… but for some strange reasons, and while Robb imitated Father and teased him just as much, Uncle Arthur never seemed to appreciate the nickname. Again, Uncle Arthur almost never smiled. In fact, he smiled even less than Father did, and Father was not known to be the most jovial man of the North.

His thoughts about Uncle Arthur plunged Jon into a mutism that was as guilty as it was worried, and he immediately forgot all the terror and exploratory eccentricity of the moment. He leaned against the stone statue that had been staring at him all this time with its sad and frozen gaze. It was none other than that of Aunt Lyanna, who seemed to be pining for her situation in a wistful pose. Taking a few moments to breathe in, Jon concentrated again on his current situation. He knew he was in trouble. Although he had realized that he had a freedom that Robb didn't seem to enjoy, that didn't mean that he was allowed to wander around the castle at will, let alone during his lessons... and that was exactly what he had done today, disappearing without warning despite the watchful eye of Master Cassel, Father and Uncle Arthur.

As far back as Jon could remember, he had always been driven by an irresistible desire to explore the dark and desolate corners of the castle of Winterfell, often to feed the curiosity that echoed his dreams and nightmares. And often to the anger of his guardians, who took quite badly the fact that he escaped their vigilance. Escaping his uncle's attention was never an easy task.

“Jon.”

Jon jumped when he heard his name. He soon recognized the deep voice that had risen firmly in the silence, and turning and leaning to his left, he realized that Father was standing there, at the corner of the corridor. Eddard Stark, his father, Lord of Winterfell. Jon found it hard to face his gaze, as Father looked at him severely and didn't seem to be in the highest of moods. Perhaps it was because he had run away and had been hiding there for some time.

It was said of Grandfather Rickard and Uncle Brandon that they were large and solidly built men of the North. Father didn't seem to have fully grasped their features. Father was certainly a rather tall and solid man, but a man of fine stature. However, like Uncle Benjen, he had the same Stark features that made all the people of Winterfell bow at the sight of him: dark gray eyes from which emanated a great severity and thick black hair like the night that bore witness to the Blackwood heritage of their family. Jon himself had inherited the Stark's black hair and wore it with pride. Jet black had always been his favourite colour.

But as he stared at Father with his violet eyes, Jon did not know how to react in front of him, knowing that he was caught in the act of fugue by his own father of all possible people. His punishment was likely to be phenomenal. Yet at no time did Father shout. He just sighed and then approached him with a slow, quiet step. He came and knelt down before him.

“There you are… But what on earth were you doing?” he sighed in a tone that mixed anxiety, relief and reproach at the same time. “My people have been looking for you for hours.”

Jon had the decency to lower his eyes before his father's gaze, but when he grabbed his shoulders and called out his name again, the boy realized that the lord of the House Stark was waiting for an answer from him.

“I was looking for the entrance to the underworld that Old Nan told us about…” he began to explain, trying as best he could to look into his father's eyes. The effort was hard. “I tried to find the river of lava…”

“The river of lava?”

Father stared at him with a strange look, and despite his young age, Jon knew from the sceptical glow that reigned there that Father did not believe him. But Jon knew he was not talking nonsense.

“I saw it in my dream…” he began nervously before biting his lower lip in frustration. When he noticed that Father was watching and listening to him, Jon decided to continue. “There's a tunnel going down. It's very, very deep, and then… There’s ice that shines on the walls and it's very cold. But then I go all the way down and it gets very hot. The ice on the walls shines a thousand colours and there's lava flowing on the floor. Old Nan said the castle was built on lava and boiling water, so I tried to find the tunnel…”

Father sighed with disappointment as he listened to his account and shook his head in spite.

“Jon, really… The whole castle has been in a panic since you disappeared. You can't sneak off like that and give me that kind of absurdity.”

Jon was immediately offended by his father's accusations. More than that, the fact that he rejected his explanations was even more vexing.

“It's the truth, there's something at the end of the tunnel, and I…”

“Jon, that's enough!”

Jon froze as Father raised his voice. He had grasped his shoulders all the more firmly, so that he was almost in pain under his grip.

“Half of my people are looking for you in the winter town and in the Wolfswood, we thought you had been kidnapped! Can you imagine the fright you caused us? Ser Arthur has rushed off with over fifty guards! You mustn't sneak off like that, whatever the reasons!”

Father's severity had given way to a dull anger. His voice echoed through the crypts and made his little body tremble. Jon felt the tears coming up in his eyes as the guilt he had not yet felt came over him with force. He had not wanted to worry Father. He had not wanted to worry Uncle Arthur, nor even Maester Luwin, from whom he had dodged the lesson two hours ago. In truth, he didn't want to worry anyone. He just wanted to find the tunnel! He could no longer hold back his grief, and tears began to fall on his little cheeks as he sobbed before the inflexible Lord Stark.

“I'm sorry.” he managed to say through his sobs, as he held his hands to his eyes to try to wipe his tears. But nothing helped. “I didn't want to worry anyone, I just wanted to find the tunnel. I'm sorry…”

Jon kept holding back his tears before Father as best he could. At one point Father sighed and then stepped forward. He took him in his arms and hugged him affectionately. Jon didn't know what he was whispering to him at that moment, but his warm presence released the overwhelming emotion that had overwhelmed him and he broke into tears in his arms.

A few moments passed thus, while his father kept him close to him and his little head against his chest. Until the tears stopped flowing and the man carefully pulled him away. He gave him a little smile, the kind of self-confident and conniving smile that Father gave only to him and Robb. This smile always had the effect of calming him when he was sad.

“Pull yourself together and let's go.” Father told him, before running a hand through his hair and ruffling it with affection. “My people are waiting for us and you still owe Maester Luwin and Ser Arthur an apology.”

Jon just nodded and gave him a sad little smile.

After a few minutes, they rose to the surface and entered one of the high courtyards of Winterfell, the one where the entrance to the Stark crypts was located.

Their apparition in the courtyard was immediately noticed by dozens of people. Despite the intimidating situation for Jon, his father ordered him to move forward, maintaining a comfortable grip on his right shoulder. Jon felt the many eyes on him and let his father guide him as he stared at his feet. Many of his observers seemed to be angry with him and he preferred not to face their animosity. Silence gradually fell within the castle walls as he made his way through the long stone alleys, finally arriving in the large entrance courtyard of Winterfell. There was a lot of activity: people were getting restless, it seemed as if they were shouting orders to others, men were riding horses, and Jon even saw two of them galloping through the gates of Winterfell. Jon soon realized that this entire ruckus was his fault, and he knew it for sure as soon as the activity ceased at the sight of him and the Lord of Winterfell. The yard quickly fell into the same silence as the one that had started to reign in his back.

Jon soon saw Maester Luwin in the middle of the courtyard. He was surrounded by Ser Rodrik Cassel, Ser Martyn Cassel, and a few other men whose uniforms Jon understood to be soldiers of the guard of Winterfell. The pressure of Father's hand on his shoulder made him realize that he had stopped at their sight, so he resumed his advance more timidly.

If he found a brief refuge in Ser Martyn's reassured and benevolent look, Maester Luwin's neutral look and Ser Rodrik's annoyed one contributed to intimidate him. He did not dare to express himself and remained silent.

“Jon, you must apologize for the worry and trouble you have caused.”

Father's voice made him look his three guardians in the eyes, not without some difficulty.

“I apologize…”

Ser Rodrik's irritated look quickly cut him off and he fell silent almost as quickly as he had started to speak.

“Apologize for what, Jon?”

His father's voice was unbiased.

“For not attending your lesson, Maester Luwin… And for escaping and causing trouble.”

Silence prevailed for a few moments, during which Jon felt judged by his three guardians. Father finally acquiesced discreetly and turned to the three men.

“Is this apology enough for you, gentlemen, or will I have to punish Jon?”

Jon didn't want to be punished. He knew he deserved it for sneaking off, but he hoped his three guardians wouldn't hold a grudge. Maester Luwin's expression remained unchanged and as neutral as ever. It was the same with Ser Rodrik, who still looked at him in an irritated way. However, Ser Martyn was smiling and looking at him with amusement, as if he saw something particularly funny in him. Jon had never really understood why Ser Martyn always smiled so much in his presence, while his older brother always treated him so harshly.

“I think we can let the little wolf get away with it for today. There was more fear than harm.” Ser Martyn exclaimed.

“My brother, that is absolutely not responsible!” Ser Rodrik intervened immediately, turning to his younger brother. “The troublemakers must be reprimanded, especially when they mobilize the entire guard to correct their whims!”

Jon shivered at Ser Rodrik's deep voice. He was a very strict man who intimidated him enormously. Father said that he was Winterfell's chief master-at-arms, and that he would be the one to teach him and Robb how to handle weapons when they were a little older. Jon would have preferred Ser Martyn, who was much nicer.

“Come on, Rodrik. Let's be indulgent, he's only six years old, he's a child.”

“But he's an incorrigible recidivist. The guard of Winterfell is not at his disposal and he'll have to learn that at his expense!”

Jon tightened the folds in his canvas pants as he listened to the two Cassel brothers debate his fate, but it was finally Maester Luwin who settled the matter.

“I think Jon must be punished.” he said calmly. Ser Rodrik looked satisfied while Ser Martyn did not look happy. Jon bit his lip imperceptibly, upset by Maester Luwin's decision. To his left, Father seemed inflexible. “However, Jon will not be involved in any household chores, Ser Rodrik, if that thought has crossed your mind.”

“Maester, this boy…”

“This boy is the son of our lord, Ser Rodrik. Please remember that.”

Ser Rodrik remained silent for a few seconds and then cast an uncertain glance at Father. Jon didn't really understand what was happening. But finally, the man nodded and turned to Maester Luwin without even sparing him a glance.

“Very well, do as you wish. I'll tell the guard that there's no more need for them to search.” he exclaimed before bowing respectfully to Father. “My lord.”

Father nodded to him and Ser Rodrik turned around and quickly withdrew from the courtyard. It was Ser Martyn's turn quickly. “My lord. Little wolf.” he greeted them warmly and even ruffled his hair, and then he left in the footsteps of his older brother. The guards in the courtyard gradually dispersed as Maester Luwin approached him and stooped down.

“Jon, you must understand that what you did will not go unpunished. I'll have you copy the entire second chapter of History of the Houses of Massey's Hook from Maester Yannol.”

“But…”

“No but, lad.”

Jon noticed Father staring at him. He agreed with the punishment and Jon realized he couldn't escape it.

“All right, Maester Luwin…”

“Good. I expect to see you in the library after lunch.”

As Maester Luwin rose to his feet and turned to his father to ask him to take his leave, a rider rushed into the courtyard and drew the attention of all present. It was none other than Uncle Arthur. He was soon followed by a few horse guards who must surely have warned him that he had been found. On seeing him at Father's side, Uncle Arthur jumped off his horse and rushed towards him without even thinking about what happened to the horse. A groom not far away managed to calm the beast down.

“Jon!” he cried. He almost threw himself on top of him, looking almost stunned. He was holding him by the shoulders in the same way his father did before. “The gods be praised, you are safe! Where was he?”

His uncle had turned to his father, in a tone that almost bordered one of exigency. If the Lord of Winterfell took offense, he didn't reveal it. “In the crypts. He was wandering around.” he merely replied. His uncle turned to him, and the man's purple eyes plunged into his own. Uncle Arthur was the only one with eyes like his own. Then the Dayne sighed with relief.

“I already told you not to do this, Jon. I told you not to. I told you again, and yet you're still doing it. But what in the name of the gods got into you this time to get you into the crypts? The crypts, of all places!”

Then Jon answered him. He answered him the same thing he had first told his father. Maester Luwin and Uncle Arthur listened to him and watched him, displaying more or less confused expressions. As if they did not understand. But while Maester Luwin seemed relatively indifferent to his story, Uncle Arthur's reaction was unexpected. He asked him one question.

“How many times did you have this dream?”

Jon looked at him uncertainly. Why was his uncle asking him this question and especially how did he know that he had been having this dream several times? Father frowned at Uncle Arthur's question, and then looked at him curiously, as if he was asking him to answer. Then Jon answered.

“I don't know... a lot.”

“How long has it been?”

Again, Jon didn't know how to interpret his uncle's question. But he nodded. He'd been having the same dream for several days. Maybe twenty.

“Excuse me, Ser Arthur, but how are these questions relevant?” Maester Luwin asked.

His uncle did not answer and continued to look him in the eyes. His hard look finally began to soften. He heard Father respectfully dismiss Maester Luwin. Then the old Maester withdrew, though disappointed that he had not received an answer from his uncle. The two remaining men watched the old Maester walk away before focusing on him again. His uncle then got up and turned to his father.

“Lord Stark, I need to speak with you when you're available.”

Jon remembered that his brother Robb had told him that Uncle Arthur never actually spoke to anyone and that he was the only one in the castle with whom he normally interacted. This was not quite true, since his uncle actually spoke to his father quite often when he was in their joint presence. It was through these short but regular exchanges that Jon had realized that Uncle Arthur and Father didn't like each other very much. Jon had more than once surprised the two men when they came to scream at the end of discussions that concerned him. He had never quite understood why they disagreed, but ever since then he had easily noticed Father's ever-closed gaze in the presence of his uncle, and conversely, a gleam which bordered on contempt and mistrust was always present in his uncle's eyes when he confronted Father.

It was with this knowledge in mind that Jon observed with curiosity the almost complicit gaze which the two men exchanged.

“I'll be waiting for you in my quarters this afternoon.”

“Father? Uncle Arthur?”

His uncle turned very quickly in his direction, frowning. Jon was quick to recognise that look and almost swallowed.

“As for you!” his uncle suddenly exclaimed. “You won't get away with this. I told you last time, Jon. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll make you regret it by doubling the length of your run. I'm going to stick to my words, boy!”

Jon nodded resignedly and sheepishly. If he had avoided Ser Rodrik's household chores, he wouldn't have the chance to avoid his uncle's hardships. Hardships in which his uncle would force him to run long distances, climbing obstacles or forcing him to crawl until he collapsed from fatigue. Father had argued with his uncle about this, but he had finally accepted it. Then Jon had no choice but to obey and do as his uncle would say.

And as his father dragged him to the castle, Jon couldn't help but feel frustrated. He would have accepted any punishment, any chore, without flinching, he would have agreed to run as much as his uncle demanded of him and to do as much dictation as Maester Luwin asked of him, if only he had been able to find the entrance to the tunnel.

He would probably be luckier next time.

* * *

**THE QUIET WOLF**

Eddard still remembered the haunted faces of Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower when he and his companions found them in Dorne, at the foot of the Tower of Joy, five years ago. At the time, he knew them only by name. He had naively thought, in his stupid northerner and delusional elder brother logic, that they were the kidnappers of his beloved Lyanna, his dear little sister. How could he have been so stupid? To this day, Eddard still asked himself that very question. A question he had never asked himself during his one year campaign. He knew that dwelling on the past when it was painful was not the right thing to do, and that there was frequently more remorse than wisdom to find in it. But his frustration was often so great that Eddard couldn't help it. He would seclude himself in the shade of the great weirwood tree of Winterfell or his solar, and then he would return to some key moments in his past, when everything had changed or was about to. Just like now, as he stared unwillingly at the piles of files on his desk that required his special attention. As if he could concentrate right now.

 _How could I have been so stupid?_ Eddard kept asking himself that question over and over again. He used to live with that question. It made so much sense then, yet no one bothered to saw it. Sweet Lyanna, he had thought at the time. She had never been sweet. Eddard often thought he was responsible for her death. Martyn and Howland had systematically told him that it wasn't his fault, that she would have died in childbirth anyway, but Eddard strongly doubted it. Although childbirth had been a factor in his younger sister's death, it was the sadness of losing her family and knowing that Rhaegar Targaryen had died in battle that overwhelmed her. And in that death, Eddard certainly had his share of responsibility.

The horror of his decisions had appeared to him at the foot of that sad tower and at the bedside of his sad sister. His sad sister was dying, terrified that her stag of a pretender would come and slay her little dragon. _“Promise me, Ned…”_ And he finally realized, holding little Aegon… _“Promise me…”_ Holding Jon in his arms and seeing Lyanna's loving and sad look at their sight, how stupid he had been. Stupid to believe that Lyanna would let herself be kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar as much as to believe Rhaegar capable of such an act. And stupid to think that Jon wasn't going to be his father's son.

Dragon dreams, that was what Arthur called them. Jon was having dragon dreams. Arthur Dayne had assured him that the members of the House Targaryen had never lost their magic, despite the fact that dragons had been extinct for more than a century and a half. Many Targaryens had been subject to these mystical dreams, often falling victim to them. Prince Dæron, known as the Drunken, had been a perfect example of this: his nocturnal whims had led him to insomnia, alcoholism and then death. Arthur had told him that Rhaegar himself had been subject to the same kind of dream.

Under normal circumstances Eddard would have made fun of such claims. He was not a pious man or a superstitious one. Far away were the years of his youth, the very years when he shivered at the stories of Old Nan at night when he, Brandon and Benjen went to bed. He certainly had faith in the Old Gods, but magic belonged to a bygone age and it was better that way. Yet Arthur Dayne had been clear and definite, so much so that Eddard could not question his word. And just because he had given his nephew “Jon” as an alias did not mean that he was any less Ægon. A Targaryen.

“My love, are you there?”

Eddard abandoned his melancholic thoughts as soon as he heard his wife's melodious voice. Looking at the open doorway of his office, he waited only a few seconds before she appeared in the corridor and crossed the threshold of the door. Catelyn Stark stood in front of him, that ever dignified and humble look emanating from her.

“Cat.” he greeted her familiarly.

The sight of his lovely wife soon cheered him up. Catelyn Stark was truly beautiful, and no matter how much he looked at her every day, Eddard never grew tired of the sight of her. Her long auburn hair, a clear sign of her Tully ancestry, was shimmering with color and tended to a warm, lively freckle. Falling in cascade over her fine shoulders, it framed a fine, smooth face that breathed beauty and freshness. Catelyn was a fulfilled and lively woman, a very proud woman too. The pride she carried from her nobility was reflected in her big blue eyes, beautiful eyes that she had given to their eldest son Robb and their daughter Sansa. She was the mother of his children and his lady.

Eddard figured out what Brandon had seen in her eventually. Within seconds, the sad ghosts of his family evaporated into happy memories. Brandon had already bragged about Catelyn's qualities when they were only engaged. If he thought at the time that Brandon was exaggerating, especially judging from the promiscuity that he maintained then with Lady Barbrey Ryswell, he realized that his brother had been more than clairvoyant. But it was not a great exploit, since his lovely Catelyn exuded his qualities without really realizing it. She had been brought up to be a perfect lady, so much so that Eddard sometimes feared he couldn't even live up to it.

The young woman approached a few slow steps and observed with curiosity his personal space. Eddard realized that Catelyn didn't often visit this part of Winterfell, let alone his office. Most of the visitors were his lieutenants and bannermen, when he wasn't in the Winter Throne Room listening to the grievances of his subjects. She held her pregnant belly rather distractedly, a vision that made Eddard smile. It was hard not to radiate pride knowing that he was the sole author of this state and that Catelyn was proudly exposing it to anyone who would see it. Since Sansa's birth, three years ago now, he and Catelyn had grown closer. What began as a marriage of duty had slowly turned into a marriage of love.

Perhaps they were meant to be. In her moments of romance and piety, Catelyn would tell him so. Sometimes, when his memories weren't haunted by those gorgeous purple eyes of the past, Eddard felt the need to believe it.

“I was looking for you, my love.” she said to him.

“What's going on?”

“Lord Dustin, Lord Reed, Lord Mormont and Ser Ryswell just arrived at the castle a few minutes ago. I told them to be patient while I came to fetch you.”

“Oh, you shouldn't have Cat.” he replied softly. “You should be resting. It's best not to overwork yourself.”

“Don't worry about it. I'm careful, I just wanted to walk a little bit.”

From the tender gaze of his wife, the Lord of Winterfell knew that she understood that he was concerned about her pregnancy. He wanted to spare her any unnecessary effort, especially those that might fall to simple guards, but he knew that Catelyn was a diligent and helpful woman. He really didn't deserve her.

“Very well.” he concluded in a formal acquiescence. Leaning on his knees and breathing calmly, he rose from his seat. “I'll go and meet these lords, then.”

Eddard invited Catelyn to leave the room, which she obediently did. Following her into the hallway, he closed the office door behind him and locked it. He then joined his wife, who was waiting for him on the staircase. Granting her a smile, they took care to descend the stairs, the Lord of Winterfell adjusting to his lady's quiet pace.

“What are you planning to do next?” he asked around the bend in the hall.

The few servants and guards who crossed their path bowed respectfully, shifting to the sides to let them pass.

“I think I'll go look for Sansa. It's time for her lesson with Septa Mordane.”

Eddard immediately frowned, but did not react at once. However, he finally intervened, as soon as he realized from the aging appearance of the walls that they were reaching the dungeon and would soon separate.

“Sansa is still young, Cat…”

“Ned, we've been over this many times. I can concede that our Robb should be formed according to the warrior customs of the North, since he is your heir, but Sansa must become a virtuous lady. You already promised me they would be educated in the light of the Seven.”

Eddard almost sighed and immediately congratulated himself on his restraint. Catelyn would certainly have taken such a reaction very badly, all the more so when he noticed the way she was getting defensive every time he brought up the subject. This was perhaps one of the only points on which Eddard still had a rather visceral opposition to Catelyn.

Catelyn was a particularly devout and traditional woman. It wouldn't have mattered much if Catelyn hadn't been born a Tully from the Riverlands. Yet, the new lady of Winterfell zealously claimed her Andal origins and southern ways, including her faith. Catelyn wasn't from the North and didn't believe in their gods. While she tolerated them, out of a concern to adapt to her new country, she remained a devoted believer in the faith of the Seven and did not accept that their children should be educated only in the northern culture of the First Men and in the faith of the Old Gods. The fact that she had brought a septa as doctrinaire as Mordane had made it clear to him.

It was frustrating, however, to see their daughter immersed so early in this rigid set of dogmas. A daughter of the House Stark of Winterfell should not spend her childhood in a chapel, surrounded by incense and candles, praying to stone idols. A woman did not need the Seven to be a respectable Lady.

“I just want what is best for our children. Perhaps it would be wise to wait before handing over our Sansa to Septa Mordane.”

They had stopped at the corner of a passageway leading to the Winter Throne room. A staircase leading to the nursery, further down in the castle, could be seen a few meters away. He and Catelyn looked at each other for a few seconds.

“I know you wish for the best. But believe me when I tell you that Sansa needs it. I started my lessons very early too, and Septa Mordane is no child eater. She'll treat her well.”

Eddard refrained from questioning his wife's opinion. He did not share this observation. Septa Mordane was certainly not a child eater, but she was a stern and intolerant woman who should not be the tutor of a Stark. The Starks were Northerners. But he tucked away these few thoughts in the back of a box and quietly and calmly breathing, he solemnly acquiesced to the words of his southron of a wife. Satisfied at the sight of his consent, she leaned over and kissed him affectionately, before turning back towards the stairs. Eddard watched her leave distractedly, the adorable little face of her Sansa coming to mind. They would have a further opportunity to talk about it once winter was finally over and the North in safety.

This thought left him uncertain and worried, and with the North in mind, he headed back to the Throne room. The joint presence of Lord Dustin, Lord Reed and Lord Mormont was not a good omen. If Ser Ryswell was also present, it meant that he was carrying the word of the Ryswells and Flints of Flint’s Finger. That could only mean the worst. The ravens coming from the south were already a bad omen, none of them having been white. _Dark wings, dark words…_

Eddard finally reached the heavy wooden gate that led him to the dungeon, letting him know that he was already in the Winterfell citadel. He grabbed the door firmly, pushed it open and crossed the threshold. The biting coldness of the winds of winter immediately took hold of him. He had just stepped outside, with the gate leading to the inner ramparts of the citadel and to a stony footbridge, the end of which he could see further on, and thus an entrance to the enormous square and round towers of the Winterfell keep. Eddard stepped forward and stood in front of the battlements, looking down on the main high courtyard of Winterfell.

The snow that had been falling heavily for the past few days had given way to mud under the passage of men, horses and carriages. Here and there, the Lord of Winterfell heard the sounds of the common life, the shouting of voices, the clattering of anvils, the neighing of horses and the creaking of wooden wheels dragging food carts and other carriages. Like the farmyards outside the castle citadel, the activity was vivid and the presence of life was important, except for animals such as pigs and chickens.

Winterfell… His castle. Eddard often found it hard to believe that it belonged to him. He was born a second son and should never have been given such a stronghold and so much land. A second son like him would never have dreamed of such a fate, so much so that Eddard had always resolved from his childhood until the war that his destiny was not that of a lord. His ambitions had never been so high. To possess an entire kingdom, an entire country that responded only to him, and so many banners and vassals… No, there was a time when he only dreamed of the south, of travel and warmth. He would have exiled himself in happiness and love, in the warm arms of a loving woman whose beautiful purple eyes would have betrayed the fact that she was as dreamy as he was. A loving woman who would have given him perhaps a daughter, or a son, at the whim of the warm winds of the Summer Sea and their long journeys. But that dream had long since died, far away in that same south, in loneliness and despair.

Ridding himself of such gloomy thoughts and memories, Eddard preferred to walk again. Crossing the few meters that separated him from the gate of the keep, he greeted the few guards who stood there and watched from the heights the courtyards on either side of the battlements.

The long corridors of the keep were not so different from the rest of the interiors of the castle. It was in these corridors that Eddard met most of his subjects. The keep of Winterfell was the part of the castle most frequented by its inhabitants. In essence, it was where the Stark family and their guests stayed. The dormitories and kitchens, where most of the people in the castle lived and worked, were on the lower floors, while the higher floors were reserved for the nobility and the House Stark. The Winter Throne room and the numerous reception rooms that hosted the many summer banquets and nocturnal parties were located in the centre of the keep. It was not necessary to climb many stairs to get there, as access was made easier by a central passage leading directly to the high courtyard.

Charting his course, it was this passage that Eddard reached, under the surprised gaze of his subjects, who were not expecting him to appear through some hidden doors. He gave his subjects a few nods and glances of recognition, the latter bowing down and making way for him obediently. He then entered the Winter Throne room through the great door.

It was a very large room with a high ceiling which resembled in substance the great royal audience halls. Far from being as spacious as the Iron Throne room, whose vastness remained the most breathtaking of all, the Winter Throne room was still an impressive place. Large enough to accommodate three hundred people, its centre was made up of large and elegant stone slabs covered with northern reliefs evoking werewolves, giants, mammoths and other magical creatures, arranged to embody the whole North. In front of this prominent space stood the Winter Throne itself, upon which all the Lords of the House Stark and the Kings of Winter had sat when the North was still an independent kingdom. It was a large wooden seat, adorned with ebony and mahogany, decorated with reliefs evoking the mythical Direwolf of the House Stark and the Kings of Winter.

A throne on which he now stood almost every day, and before which his subjects came to kneel and beg for his favours and those of the House Stark. And in that particular place stood today in expectation the men he was supposed to receive. There were five of them and their faces were familiar to him. Eddard didn't even have time to announce that the five men turned in his direction to greet him.

“The prodigal son of the North finally graces us with his presence! We were waiting for him so eagerly!” exclaimed one of them as he stepped forward, coming to meet him.

Eddard felt himself smiling before the laughing eyes of his exuberant guest. A glance had been enough to recognize him. It was none other than Lord William Dustin, young lord of House Dustin and lord of Barrowton. He was one of the most powerful lords of the North, and more importantly, one of his closest friends. He was a tall man who bore with eccentric pride the most emblematic traits of the men of the North: he had a beard, even more voluminous than Eddard remembered, with a long, shaggy, dark brown hair. His large brown eyes seemed almost hidden beneath thick eyebrows, but his pulpy lips, arched in a half-marked smile, stood out despite his thick moustache. His outfit was just as thick as his physique, almost wrapped in heavy furs.

Anyone who saw William Dustin appear should be impressed and intimidated at the sight of him, but the Lord of Winterfell that he was was no fool. Beneath this austere outfit that southerners would easily classify as northern barbarian lay a particularly refined and attentive man. William quickly came to hug him in his arms with a big laugh, hugging and laughing to which Eddard responded easily.

“Will.” he says in a laughing tone before looking at him. “It's good to see you again, my friend.”

“Ah, Ned! Damn wolf of the North, it's been a long time!” the man replied enthusiastically. “I saw Cat! She looks at the top of her form, that good southern lady. By the gods, already two cubs, you're not wasting your time!”

Eddard emitted a small amused laugh. No matter how many years passed, William didn't seem to change. The man had been a great friend to his brother Brandon before he had been his own, but the losses and the war had brought them closer. There was a time when this very same man was courting Lyanna, so much so that, not having forgotten his affections or his loyalty, he left without hesitation at his side and headed south.

“You'll have to keep pace with Lady Barbrey.”

“Ah! As you say... But you know the lady, she is capricious and I am far from being as vigorous as a young wolf would be on a young and beautiful trout!”

They laughed again. The man's saucy and provocative attitude was not to change either. To think that he was the one who had carried Catelyn during their bedtime ceremony... That night, when he didn't even really know Catelyn and still saw her as his brother's fiancée. And that lout of a Dustin had dared to say the next day, in front of their friends, that he regretted being weaned.

A few seconds passed before his other guests manifested themselves. And it was Howland Reed who had stepped forward.

“Eddard.” he greeted him quietly.

“Howland.” replied the Quiet Wolf of Winterfell in the same tone.

They came and hugged each other amicably for a few seconds, William making way for the crannogman. Holding each other by the shoulders, they looked at each other. Howland hadn't changed. The years seemed generous for him, despite the hardships of life in the labyrinthine, swampy expanses of the Neck.

“I heard about the birth of your son Jojen. Lady Jyanna must be delighted. Congratulations, Howland.”

Jojen Reed. He was happy to know his friend finally had an heir. The attention seemed to touch the crannogman.

“Thank you, Eddard. I'm sending them back to you. Congratulations about your daughter Sansa. I have no doubt she'll grow up to be as beautiful as her mother as well as her aunt.”

The words of the Reed in honour of his wife and his sister cheered him up. More than anyone else, Howland had the right to keep the memory of the late She-wolf of Winterfell alive. She not only saved his life, but fought to avenge his honour. If Sansa could be even half of what Lyanna had been when she was alive, Eddard would be a happy man.

Howland turned his head to his left and gave way to a third man, whose sight brightened Eddard's heart all the more.

“Good morning, Lord Eddard.”

“Ser Mark... It's a pleasure to see you again.”

Ser Mark Ryswell stood smiling before him. The man had saved his life more times than anyone else on this earth. The Knight of the North, that's what the Northerners liked to call him, so much so that the name had even echoes in the south. The knight who had distinguished himself in bravery and honour, defeating his adversaries honourably and sparing those who found themselves at his mercy with equal dignity. Mark had always been a loyal, supportive, and unfailing follower. He probably would have followed him into death if he had been faced with such a dilemma.

Mark Ryswell was everything one would expect from a knight, in its idealized stereotypes. Mark was a handsome man, tall, with a long face and an aquiline nose. His angular chin and high jaw gave his face a symmetry that never went unnoticed for its cleanliness and beauty. On this particular point, he had nothing to envy men like Jaime Lannister. The Ryswell, however, did not play its advantages and seemed to leave these physical qualities behind a typically northern sobriety. If he shaved, he didn't seem to be a maniac of neatness. His brown hair was very long and he sometimes tied it up in a bun in the northern style to prevent it from hindering his movements. His eyes were bright blue and there was a fairly obvious gleam of awareness and intelligence.

His engaging physique was a match for his reasoned personality. Mark was a gentleman who was aware of his place in this world of constraints and hierarchies. Out of a second son situation just like him, Mark had made the choice to become a knight. The Ryswell were following the Faith of the Seven, so the opportunity had been very indicated to him, and because of his recognized martial talent, he had been knighted before even reaching sixteen years old. He was a good man, of unparalleled self-sacrifice and remarkable eloquence. Without his right words at the foot of the Tower of Joy, Eddard doubted that they would all be alive today. Eddard would not have been prompt in diplomacy if it had not been for him, but by negotiating with the inflexible Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Mark Ryswell had once again saved their lives.

“A mutual pleasure, Lord Eddard. Winterfell is as impressive as ever to see.”

“As you say. I hope my wife made you all feel welcome.”

“Of course she did. She's a lovely lady. Ser Martyn was also here to keep us busy.”

As if to answer the mention of him, Ser Martyn Cassel approached them, affectionately laying his hands on Mark and Howland's shoulders. He gave a look of gratitude to William, who was standing to the right of their crannogman friend. And seeing all four of them in front of him, Eddard realized that he was in the presence of his dearest friends, his most valiant companions, and his most devoted protectors. Only the presence of Ethan Glover and Theo Wull was missing, but the leader of the House Wull had not left his northern mountains for a long time, and the constraints of the region were unfortunately not conducive to travel. Meanwhile, Ethan was far to the south, managing Jon's legacy of the Island of Dragonstone, in the name of the House Stark.

“Hello, Ned.” the Cassel greeted him.

Ser Martyn Cassel... Captain of the Winterfell guard and knight of House Cassel. His right-hand man and confidant. The man who knew all about his plans and watched over the safety of his children, his wife and all the people of Winterfell with benevolent zeal. If there was one man to whom Eddard could entrust his life without even thinking, it was Martyn Cassel.

“Hello, Martyn. Thanks for keeping them busy while I was away.”

“Nothing the captain of the Stark guard can't handle.”

Satisfied with the cheerful response of the Cassel, Eddard intimated his comrades to step aside, so that he could meet his last guest, no less important than the others. Waiting patiently for the Lord of Winterfell to make his reunion with the brave companions that the North knew him to have, the man had humbly stood aside.

Eddard approached the man with respect, giving him a look of gratitude full of consideration. A look that was returned to him with equal ceremony. It was Lord Jorah Mormont, lord of House Mormont and lord of Bear Island. He was a tall man, the tallest of them all here. He was also about a decade older than them, but the years seemed to be generous with him in that he still looked like the young and dignified lord Eddard remembered him to be. A beginning of baldness was starting to show on the high lines of his forehead and was harassing an already sparse brown mane, but it was a common affliction among men. Jorah Mormont was a sturdy man, with a very strong build, and his heavy bear fur outfit didn't seem to hide even a little of the muscular thickness of his arms and shoulders. Eddard would swear that the Mormont could hold him and Howland up at the same time if he wanted to.

Even though the Lord of the House Mormont had not had the opportunity to distinguish himself during the war against the Targaryen, there had been many reports of his bravery, discipline and reasoned tactical decisions. Eddard knew very little about him, but he was one of his most reliable bannermen and Eddard knew him to be good and fair.

“Lord Mormont, welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, my lord. I bring you news from Bear Island. I assume you're aware of the situation.”

“I am. At least some parts of it. I look forward to your report, my lord.”

The ravens he was getting from the West Coast were getting more and more accurate. And the presence of Jorah Mormont under his roof left little room for doubt. The beginning of this two hundred and eighty-ninth year, which saw a possible end to the winter and thus a hardening of the low temperatures before the coming of spring, left the situation of the Seven Kingdoms in a strange state of suspension.

Eddard saw Howland and Mark acquiesce to each other in a tacit agreement. His crannogman friend then took the floor.

“We also bring you words of the Flint’s Finger and the Neck, Eddard. They're not good, I’m afraid.”

“As I suspected…” he sighed, and weariness was already creeping into his mind. “I myself have received words from the king and from the Glover and Tallhart Houses… Come, my lords. It is time to speak.”

The very next moment, the Lord of Winterfell led his bannermen and friends to his quarters.

***

One hundred men and women at arms had lost their lives in the defence of Bear Fort, the main stronghold on the south coast of Bear Island. The attack had been swift and deadly. Seven villages had been raided beforehand, their populations put to sword, old men as well as children. Women had been spared and put in cages, tortured and raped, if it was relevant to distinguish between torture and rape. In the confusion of these various assaults, the forces garrisoned among the coastal forts had deployed to drive out an invisible enemy. The invaders, emboldened by the effect of surprise, seemed to think they could take the island, and the sudden misdeeds on the civilian population had given way to maneuvers of conquest and siege. But the House Mormont had held, true to its motto. "Here we stand," it said, and here they had stood, inflexible as they were before death and danger. Inflexible as they were before the Ironborn.

Raids had been carried out all along the coast, the places targeted by the excursions having in common the fact that they were home to undefended populations. The Saltspear fjords of the Blazewater Bay were currently under Ironborn occupation and the sparse Flint garrisons had been forced into general retreat, to the detriment of the local island populations who were now under foreign occupation. The Glover forces that traditionally held the Sea Dragon Point peninsula had been more fortunate in their retreat, as they had managed to organize the evacuation of the raid-prone towns and villages in the area. Many of the fishing villages on the Stony Shore had been burned to the ground before the powerlessness of the Ryswells, Dustins and Tallharts. What could have been interpreted as an increase in Ironborn raids due to the harshness of winter could no longer be interpreted as such. This sum of merciless attacks was nothing but a sum of acts of war.

Eddard had received ravens from all over the kingdom. This increase in Ironborn raids was not unique to the North. The entire western coast of the Seven Kingdoms had been hit. The shield islands in the Reach had come under very heavy attack, as had the rest of the Reach's coastline. Several of the northernmost points on the Westerlands coast appeared to have been attacked and occupied, but the western fleet anchored at Lannisport had so far discouraged any more daring Ironborn attempts in the area. The Riverlands owed its relative stability only to the fortress of Seaguard, which protected its western shores under the skilful management and strict supervision of the House Mallister. The last raven that reached him was a call for calm from the Iron Throne, coupled with a personal message from Robert Baratheon, who asked him as a friend to prepare the mobilization of the forces of the North.

Eddard didn't know what Balon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke and current ruler of the Iron Islands was planning. Although Ironborn raids had increased, they were only a few conflicts in Westeros that were not very well located... But Eddard knew Robert well and had no doubt of his foresight when it came to war. If the Baratheon king advised him to gradually mobilize the North, it could only mean one thing: The Seven Kingdoms would soon go to war.

He was not very happy with the idea.

“This Balon Greyjoy is an idiot if he thinks that by provoking all of Robert Baratheon's supporters he will incite some to leave the Seven Kingdoms. Only an idiot would think that provoking Robert at the beginning of his reign would weaken him enough to have a chance against him.”

William Dustin's words had captured the silence in the room. Eddard immediately stepped out of his thoughts to observe his four friends sitting across from him on the other side of his desk. Jorah Mormont had retired a while ago, leaving the four companions to chat amongst themselves and enjoy the silence in his benevolent presence.

“That's what I thought too.” Howland continued in the worried tone that Eddard knew him. “His maneuvers are far from rational. His attempt to occupy Sea Dragon Point makes no sense… He's only wasting his troops and undermining the morale of his men before a war breaks out.”

“That's not why we shouldn't be vigilant.” Eddard replied. “I will answer the call of Lord Galbart Glover. I don't know what the Ironborn intentions are on the peninsula, but we'll have to chase them off as soon as possible.”

“Galbart Glover's a coward…” William grumbled in his beard. “Ethan would never have let the Ironborn get this far inland…”

“Perhaps so, Lord William, but I think Lord Galbart acted fairly by evacuating the towns most at risk. Better the safety of our people at the expense of the integrity of our land. We'll have plenty of time to drive out the looters and to rebuild what was destroyed, but we cannot replace the dead.”

The words of Ser Mark sounded just as accurate as ever. William couldn't find anything to say and bent down to grab the mug of beer lying in front of him on the desk. A servant had come from the kitchen to bring them wine and beer. Needless to say, William was not the most moderate of the five of them in terms of consumption.

Silence returned soon enough and both Howland and Martyn took the opportunity to grab their glasses of wine and take a few sips. The mention of Ethan Glover reminded Eddard that he was so far south of them. Seeing his four comrades in front of him sipping their drinks with varying degrees of enthusiasm, the Lord of Winterfell would have appreciated it if their entire group had been re-formed. Good Theo Wull and his impetuous cheerfulness would certainly have changed the almost contemplative atmosphere of that moment.

After a few seconds Eddard felt the more than marked attention of Mark on him. He then crossed his gaze whose analytical glow was rather explicit.

“Lord Eddard, I saw Ser Arthur just a while ago…”

His remark immediately attracted the attention of their comrades. Eddard sighed in advance.

“Me too, now that you mention it…” Howland replied, looking at him hesitantly.

“The man still looks as stern as ever.” said William before putting his half-full mug on the desk. “He doesn't look happy in the North. But then again, he's a dornishman, so that's not surprising.”

Martyn laughed at this line and followed it up.

“He's especially too busy framing Jon. He's eager to discipline him, but the boy is simply indomitable.”

If Martyn had wanted to lighten the mood, he realized soon enough that he had actually managed to do the opposite. Eddard couldn't blame him, because Jon was really a charming child. But his existence was burdened with political challenges and wounds from the past. He often found it hard to look at Jon straight in the eye, as he saw so much of the child's parents in them. Or was it his own guilt?

“How is he?” Howland asked suddenly in a soft tone. Eddard knew at once from his half-lost gaze that the Reed was remembering Lyanna. “I couldn't see him when I arrived. I was told his eyes are even brighter than they were when he was born…”

“He's fine.” Eddard replied, giving his friend a reassuring smile. “We are currently trying to deal with his eccentricities but he takes after his parents on that score. And yes, his eye colour has become more pronounced as he has grown up. He also seems to have inherited the Targaryen’s natural beauty. Unless it's that of Lyanna…”

For if Jon's eyes, shining like amethysts with indigo reflections, were already remarkable enough on their own, the boy had also obtained the noble features of his Valyrian ancestors, the ones for which his father's family was famous. But sometimes Eddard doubted which of his parents Jon had drawn his charm from. He saw so much of his sister in her son that he often found it disturbing.

The truth remained that the boy's features were disturbing to everyone. Even if they didn't show it openly, the people of Winterfell often spared him a second glance when they saw him wandering around the castle. Over the years, some of his subjects or passing guests had come to congratulate him on the child he had inherited from a tender southern star, to whom the beautiful features were easily related, although these very same people were careful not to spell out a name in front of him. They often paid the same homage to the child's supposed uncle... If only the world knew.

In any case, his confirmation seemed to worry his three guests, who looked at each other with uncertain expressions. The Quiet Wolf of Winterfell had no trouble understanding why. Especially as Howland highlighted the cause of their concern, his own clearly shining in his green eyes of Reed.

“Has anyone ever asked any nosy questions about… his origins?”

Martyn seemed to see how difficult it was for him to answer this question, so he took the liberty to answer in his place to prevent him from mentioning the names of ghosts from the past.

“So far, the few people who are curious about this seem to connect Jon with Ser Arthur and his people. The purple eyes of the House Dayne have always been a great illusion.”

“So far…” William whispered then, before locking himself into an opaque silence.

“So far.” Martyn repeated simply, in a very unenthusiastic tone.

They all knew what it meant.

“Then may that so far last as long as possible.” Mark said with dignity, before raising his glass.

And they all made a toast to that.

* * *

**THE CRANNOGMAN**

The lords of the North had arrived as the days passed, at the whim of the sordid news coming from the south. With the Lords came their suites and their own fieffied knights, even their entire households for the most ceremonial of them. If Lord Jon of the noble House Umber, known as the Greatjon, had been content with his great troop of heavy mounted northern warriors, exposing the cohorts of Last Heart in a pride proper to the intrepid Umbers, other northern lords had not held back in pomp and wealth. Lord Wyman of the mighty House Manderly of White Harbour had come with his entire household and, moreover, with all his fieffied knights and their own suites, amounting to nearly three thousand people. Other lords as powerful as the latter two had modestly made do with a personal detachment and a few dozen servants and squires, as had Lord Roose of the House Bolton of Dreadfort, whose reputation was already well established.

Winterfell was now overcrowded with the first formations of the ban of the North, so much so that a part of the guests had settled in the host establishments of the winter town, the most servile suites of the lords in general. The small town, which usually housed around ten thousand inhabitants and which counted around twice as many in the winters, had almost quadrupled its size. Nearly forty thousand people lived around the ancestral castle of the House Stark and its eponymous village.

Everywhere, there was activity. In each of the streets of the winter town, the noise of the forges, the neighing of the horses, the crackling of the voices, the music coming from the taverns and emitted by multitudes of instruments and minstrels. Even the brothel of the town was full to bursting point, so much so that the men were queuing up, according to what was being said! But the truth remained that it was now difficult to find any place of calm and respite, any place safe from the incessant activities of men and women, and cattle and all the rest. Except perhaps the welcoming and comfortable godswood of Winterfell, the largest in the North and reputed to be the oldest.

Lord Howland Reed had always enjoyed this place. Here, the presence of the Old Gods seemed genuine and an atmosphere of magic swirled through the foliage. In the middle of the sacred wood was a large pond whose waters were so dark that they seemed to be black, and large rocks stood out from the ground, inviting visitors to sit and contemplate the place. And the heart tree! Oh, mighty and magnificent weirwood, whose timber was as white as the snows that covered the vast northern plains and whose scarlet leaves were like the blood of the bovine sacrifices at the harvest feasts. Its sight was breath-taking, and the aura that emanated from it always shocked Howland to the bones whenever he entered this ancient place of cult of the First Men, the home of ancient magic.

He would have loved to have been able to contemplate the expression of his children in this place. They were both so sensitive to the Old Gods. His daughter Meera Reed was a powerful skinchanger whose powers had manifested themselves very early, even before she was three years old. His wife Jyanna, at that time pregnant with their son Jojen, had hurriedly come to see him to bring him to their daughter. Since then, there were few days when his sweet daughter did not live surrounded by lizards and other marsh reptiles. She had even bonded with a lizard-lion!

The potential of their son Jojen was even greater as the Old Gods seemed to awaken in his presence, and had done so since his birth. What might happen if Howland ever introduced Jojen to the godswood of Winterfell? Right here, where the Kings of Winter had been presented at birth, had grown up and married? Right here, where they had put their greatest enemies to death?

Howland Reed recalled a time when he never even imagined he would meet a man like Ser Arthur Dayne in such a place. And he was sure that Ser Mark Ryswell didn't think any less. And yet there they were, all three of them. What a strange time.

“I wish we could have met again under more serene circumstances, Ser Arthur. I think Lord Howland shares my sentiment.”

His old friend had spoken wisely, as always. Howland merely nodded his head before giving a humble smile to Arthur Dayne. The man still impressed him. Even without his imposing white plate armor of Kingsguard, even without the presence that his long white and immaculate cape gave him, Ser Arthur Dayne always seemed so royal. The South still emanated as much from him as ever, grandiose and chivalrous as one could imagine. He was tall and still seemed as powerful and inflexible as Howland remembered.

Between the Arthur Dayne he had known at the great tournament at Harrenhal and the same man today, nothing had changed. It was the same man who, in the company of Prince Rhaegar, had surprised him and Benjen Stark when Lady Lyanna secretly returned after her reckless participation under the identity of the knight of the Laughing Tree.

That very same man had spent the last decade protecting Lady Lyanna's legacy.

“There's nothing we can do about it. Without the House Targaryen to cement the Kingdom, such things are bound to happen.” Dayne replied, making himself more comfortable on the rock that he used as his seat. “Balon Greyjoy is an impulsive megalomaniac. He would sooner or later have entered into rebellion, even under the Targaryen rule.”

The three of them were seated in front of the heart tree of the godswood, Howland standing closest to the trunk and his mysterious weeping face. Here, isolated from the castle and the many guests, they could speak without barriers. No one would come and disturb them or spy on them, for the space was wide and bright enough to see anyone coming.

“Let's just hope Doran Martell doesn't follow his example.”

“Not gonna happen, Ser Mark. Believe me, Doran Martell is not that stupid. He would never risk the House Martell and the people of Dorne in a futile rebellion against the Usurper.”

The Reed saw his Ryswell friend stumble, although imperceptibly for the Dayne, at the use of the last term. “ _The Usurper_ ”, as the latter called their king. The former kingsguard of the House Targaryen – if only the crannogman could consider it former when the Dayne zealously guarded the legitimate Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne – was wise to use the term only in their presence. For it was a term that more than one loyalist had lost his head over the last few years.

“Are you sure about it?” asked the Ryswell hesitantly. “He would have every reason to raise Dorne against King Robert, unlike the Greyjoy.”

“I'm sure of it. If he had wished it, he would have done it long ago.” Arthur replied simply as if it were obvious.

Howland wanted to believe it. In addition to belonging to the House Dayne, which governed nearly a quarter of Dorne in the name of the House Martell, it turned out that Ser Arthur knew them personally. He had been, in fact, Princess Elia and her children's guardian alongside Ser Lewyn Martell for a time before this task fell to Ser Jaime Lannister. _Perhaps they would still have been alive today if Ser Arthur Dayne had remained their guard_ , the crannogman thought as he watched the Dayne drawing on distant memories. _But then he wouldn't be here protecting Lyanna's son._ And only the gods knew how much Howland was indebted for that.

“Prince Oberyn would certainly take advantage of a moment of instability to act against the Usurper, but Prince Doran is not his brother…” Arthur continued calmly. “He's a perfectionist. If House Dayne and its armies don't follow, he'll never move. And even then, I doubt he would make any move… Anyway, I can assure you that my brother Allyrion will never follow him without my approval. The life of the prince is too precious for us to risk it in this way.”

Howland couldn't agree more with this observation.

“What prince?”

Ser Arthur stood up in a jump as Howland felt his heart miss a beat, and the puzzled expressions of his companions showed their obvious state of surprise. Arthur Dayne was in such a state of suspicion that he had even firmly grasped the pommel of his sword. Then the surprise gave way to reason as they realized that not only had no one entered the godswood, but that the particularly youthful voice had sounded from above. With an understanding look on their faces, the three of them raised their heads and noticed the little intruder who had been listening to them for who knows how long.

Howland remained completely silent as soon as he crossed _his_ eyes.

It was as if his breath had gone away as he was content to observe with homage the only person he had wished to meet during the last two weeks without any real success, the only child on whom to put a name as naturally as Ser Arthur did made him feel nervous.

It was the little prince.

Howland remembered that when he saw and held him, the child was just a baby that he could easily have held in one hand if he had wanted to. He remembered that he and Eddard had then gone back up north in advance of the northern armies before separating on the edge of the royal road, shortly before reaching the swampy margins of the Neck. Eddard had thus taken the road to Moat Cailin, accompanied only by Ser Arthur, Lyanna's son carefully held in the crook of his right arm.

But Ægon Targaryen, or Jon Snow as he was officially known, was no longer a baby. _Lady Lyana's son... he's grown so much_ , he thought then. The first thing that caught his eyes when he saw the boy was his deep gaze. His eyes were as Eddard and Martyn had described them and even more. They were Prince Rhaegar's eyes, no doubt about it. It was all the more striking because Howland had known the prince personally and knew the truth about the boy's lineage. His skin was very fair and his features were fine, desperately Valyrian, and again Howland must have recognized the accuracy of the child's adoptive father in his descriptions: Aegon had clearly taken after the best of his parents and so much of his Targaryen of a father that it would be difficult to find the Northerner. He was simply, almost unreasonably, far too good-looking for that.

It was actually a relief that the child did not inherit his father's silver hair. In that sense, Lyanna had left a clear trace of herself in that child: the dark hair that the Starks had passed on from Lady Melantha to their children. With that color, and despite the boy's Valyrian eyes and features, Eddard and Ser Arthur could still delude people about the boy's origins even if they were obvious to anyone with enough information. But a black-haired Targaryen was not a common occurrence and very few of the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms had survived Duncan Targaryen to remember him and testify to the contrary. As for his late older half-sister, she had taken too much of the Martell for anyone to make the connection between them. Howland even doubted that Aegon would ever be confronted with dangerous people like Tywin Lannister or Olenna Tyrell, who could see through his false identity and detect the Targaryen.

 _By the time they realize it, it will be too late for them_ , he began to hope. The day the truth would come out, and even if he knew that Eddard was frightened at the thought of another war, the little prince would be ready to embrace his Targaryen heritage. Howland knew he would be behind him and with him the whole Neck. _Lady Lyana's little boy…_ He couldn't save her, in fact he didn't even truly understand her distress. Lady Lyana had never wanted to marry Robert Baratheon, he had been aware of that. And yet too many people thought that Rhaegar Targaryen, despite his virtuous reputation, had kidnapped the lady. None had known that he had been the only one to save her from the king's sinister men before the worst could happen, thus definitively compromising the deposition plan he had long prepared against his royal father. Seeing how happy Lady Lyana had been holding her son in her arms, the very thought of a rape was even more absurd. She had loved and desired this child so ardently. Howland had not fully realized it by then, but he understood it once he returned to Greywater Watch. Then he had definitely realized it three years later, when Jyanna had given birth to their little Jojen. For his wife had looked just as much at the birth of their son as Lyanna did when the little prince was born.

An abductor and a rapist would never have caused Lady Lyanna such blissful feelings while she was at the edge of death. No, only a prince whom she loved dearly, and the fruit of this devotion.

Ser Arthur's surprise soon left him as signs of anger appeared on his rigid face.

“Jon, by all the gods, what are you doing up there? How did you even get up there, and for how long!?”

If the boy had approached them in a particularly jovial manner, he obviously was much less jovial in his response to the Dayne's reaction. Not surprising, given his intrusiveness. With an embarrassed expression, he simply pointed to the extension of the long, heavy branch on which he had been standing.

“I've passed through there.” replied the boy.

The branch went out into the foliage and branches spread out from other trees of the godswood. Clearly, the little Targaryen had passed through the heights, remaining silent enough in his movements so that they would not notice it. This prompted Ser Arthur to ask his next question, a question which all three of them had been asking themselves.

“What exactly did you hear? Answer the question!”

Dayne's firm voice had thundered, marking the place with its severity. His harshness had been such that he had almost screamed his last demand. Howland looked at the Dayne uncomfortably. Talking to the child in this way might not have been the best way to educate him... He knew he would never have the courage to address his daughter or son in this way.

“I didn't hear anything…” Lyanna's son defended himself before resuming under the gaze of Ser Arthur. “Just that you were talking about Dorne and the prince… I… I was just… I was curious, Uncle Arthur…”

The severe gleam in the Dayne's eyes had gradually discouraged the boy, dissipating in a few seconds his cheerful temerity.

“Dorne and the prince. Is that all you heard? Nothing else? Speak!” insisted the knight.

“That's all, Uncle Arthur! I swear! I'm not lying!”

Arthur Dayne stared at the child for a few seconds, the latter imploring the Dayne with his gaze, before giving them a slanting glance, relatively imperceptible to the prince's eyes. Fortunately, the prince had not heard their words about Robert Baratheon or the House Greyjoy.

Then the Dayne nodded.

“Very well, I believe you. But I warn you, we'll talk about this later. Now get down from that tree before I get mad.”

It was quite obvious that the Dayne would punish his protégé later for this intrusion. But it was certainly safer to put the situation on hold while the prince was here. Judging by the intelligent gleam in the boy's eyes, it was quite clear that he was a perceptive child. It was best to keep his interest away from any dangerous information.

“You are Howland Reed!”

Lady Lyana's son had ignored his guardian's injunction from the very moment he spotted him. It didn't even seem like he did it on purpose because he was so focused on him. Howland held back from laughing when he saw the bored look on Ser Arthur's face and the curious, childish and eager eyes of the little prince. It was as if the distress which had been inspired in him by the severity of Ser Arthur's actions had instantly dissipated into nothingness. At least the problem of interest in any dangerous information had been solved. His attention was as constant as his mood.

The child had laid his entire length against one of the large lower branches of the heart tree, two meters above the ground. What most northerners would see as an offense to the Old Gods, Howland saw it as an innocent eccentricity that reminded him in a strange way of the Children of the Forest. It was as if he was in his element, accepted and surrounded by the branches and foliage of the imposing thousand-year-old tree.

“How did you recognize me?” he asked with amusement.

“You're the smallest!” the child hastened to answer before settling down as a tailor on his branch. The movement contributed to make Ser Arthur even more tense, as his expression showed. “And my father and Maester Luwin have already told me about you! Father told me that one should not judge by your size. That you're a powerful magician and we can see it in your green eyes. Maester Luwin thinks there is no such thing as magic any more but I think he is mistaken. Father is always right and you do seem as mysterious as a sorcerer. Do you think magic exists, sir Howland?”

If moving three meters above the ground had made his guardian aware of the danger, Howland almost laughed when he saw Aegon grab the branch by the legs and let himself literally hang upside down above them. Ser Arthur was simply livid and Mark was not very confident either.

At that moment, Howland knew that this boy was definitely Lyanna's one. He seemed to be doing as he pleased and lived only in his own world to the point of standing and ignoring the effects of the earth's attraction. Lyanna was just the same when she hung herself so naturally on the saddle of her horse, ignoring even the life-threatening danger of a fall. These vivid memories kept the crannogman serene: little Aegon would not fall. Neither now nor ever, and certainly not in the presence of the Old Gods. He was in a place too benevolent for that.

“You are asking a lot of questions for a little monkey.” he replied, repressing his laughter.

“What is a monkey?”

The boy's innocent question was accompanied by an ever-curious look and an adorable head movement. Howland shared his gaze with Mark, who shook his head in a tender and relaxed manner. He understood that there was no need to worry. The same could not be said of Ser Arthur, who looked like he was about to explode.

“A small, hairy, childlike Essos animal that clings to trees and defies gravity, just like you, little wolf.”

Lady Lyana's son started laughing and swaying even more. How the blood didn't go to his head was the big question. It was probably with the growing risk of falling that Ser Arthur cracked for good.

“Enough is enough! Jon, I told you to come down! I'm not going to repeat myself a third time!” he exclaimed as he stood under the boy and reached out his arms. “Come on, get down!”

Aegon watched his guard in a small pout but executed himself silently. Taking the branch in hand, he suspended himself this time with the right limbs, feet down. After a few seconds, he let himself fall, Ser Arthur catching him at once. The apparent tension on the face of the Kingsguard dissipated just as quickly when he put his protégé on the ground. What a loyal and zealous guard the Dayne turned out to be.

“Is he right?” had resumed Aegon without delay, unaware even of the seriousness of the concern of his devoted protector. After all, he was just a child.

“Who, dear Jon?”

“Father. That you are a magician.”

Howland couldn't help but laugh this time. The boy was full of life and too curious for his own good. And his affection for Eddard was crying out if his desire to believe in everything the Lord of Winterfell said was a sign. So he waved his hand to invite him to come closer, which the boy did as he took a few steps forward.

“Give me your right hand.” he asked afterwards.

So the child did so and handed it to him. For the next few seconds, caressing the child's palm with his fingertips, going through the small folds and especially the line that followed the base of his thumb, Howland concentrated, eyes closed in meditation. Then he opened them and looked at the little prince with an amused look. The latter observed him with an expectation and curiosity peculiar to that of children.

“You possess a very powerful magic, dear Jon.”

“Do I?”

“You certainly do. The Old Gods have been telling me so. They are speaking to me, after all!”

Now the child looked amazed and convinced. On his right, his Ryswell of a friend had let escape a small laugh but in front of him, the cryptic and hesitating air of Ser Arthur told him all that he needed to know. Ser Arthur knew he was not joking and believed him.

And that was not surprising, for despite the barely serious tone that the crannogman had adopted, the fact remained that he had not lied. He had not needed to concentrate and meditate in order to be aware of the presence of the little prince. He had done so only for appearances and hardly to feel his potential.

For Howland was a skinchanger, gifted to a certain point of magical perception: at least one member of the House Reed developed such potential each generation. Both his daughter Meera and his son Jojen had inherited the same abilities as him, demonstrating once again that the magic of their family was powerful. The Neck was still a land of magic, despite the fact that both south and North had forgotten the ancient ways of the First Men. The arrival of the Andals a thousand years ago had cut the men of the south off from magic, while the North had forgotten it over time. But not the crannogmen of the Neck.

And in his capacities as a skinchanger, the Reed had found himself literally overwhelmed just by looking the little prince in the eye. Aegon Targaryen exuded so much potential that for a man like him, the boy was like a lighthouse in the middle of the night.

 _The pact of ice and fire_ , Howland immediately thought, with Aegon's mixed race origins in mind. While appreciating the clear lines of his palm, he meditated on the fact that the blood of Old Valyria and of the First Men flowed through it. It was even said of the Starks that they were direct descendants of the Children of the Forest. Obviously, if the sensation of seeing and touching the boy was a glimpse, the mixed blood of the Kings of Winter and the Dragon Lords was a dizzying potential. _Perhaps Cregan Stark had already considered creating a being with such a special blood._

“Ser Arthur, Howland, I'm sorry, Jon has slipped away again, do you have any idea where–!”

Ser Martyn Cassel had rushed into the godswood of Winterfell, quickly followed by William. They looked worried, especially the first of the two. Relief at the sight of Aegon came as quickly as they had entered the godswood. They sighed in spite and approached the group. After two weeks of routine in the castle, Howland had quickly figured out why Martyn and often others like him were running around at all hours of the day. “ _Lord Stark's two sons have the wolf's blood, and especially his indocile bastard!_ ” often said the servants and the people of the castle and the winter town in whispers.

Howland then turned to Lady Lyana's little one, whose thoughts obviously always seemed to be focused on magic.

“How about this Jon: When you're older, I'll teach you to use magic... But only if you're a good boy and listen to your father.” he revealed to him in a knowing wink. A small pout appeared on the boy's still childish face. He was clearly aware of his manipulation, but he accepted it all the same in silent acquiescence. “Now a boy must follow Ser Martyn. He was originally looking for you.”

“Are you coming, Jon?” the captain of the Stark guard asked.

The boy definitely didn't want to leave, judging by the look on his face. But William, who was standing by Martyn's side, had the perfect solution to get the little Targaryen's attention.

“You told us you wanted to become a knight, didn't you? Don't you want to learn how to wield a sword?”

“Wield a sword”, “Become a knight”. These were all the words that would appeal to a little boy's ears. And to the amusement of the adults, the child easily took the bait set by the Lord of the House Dustin.

“Yes I do!” he exclaimed instantly, turning to the lord. “Like Dæron the Young dragon who single-handedly conquered Dorne!”

“Ah!” William laughed. “Then you'll have to train hard! Invading Dorne is no small task, little dragon!”

“I can do it!”

“Then follow me! The invasion of Dorne won't wait!”

And Prince Ægon left the godswood, holding hands with Martyn and William, without even realizing how much Lord Dustin's teasing and ironic retorts were not as teasing and ironic as they seemed. Their laughter could still be heard a little while before fading away in the distance, the calm gradually returning to the grove. “Little dragon” he had claimed in sarcasm. They had all tensed up at the second.

For the next minute there was silence, barely disturbed by the noise coming from outside.

“We have to be careful.” Arthur mumbled. “Especially with him. He's unaware of the danger, he'll sneak in anywhere and vanish in a minute if we don't watch him...”

“We have been imprudent,” Mark said simply in a concluding tone. It didn't really leave much room for an answer, not that they wanted to answer. “You're good with children.” he then continued to his attention.

“He's a little full of energy. He reminds me of Lady Lyanna.”

Arthur emitted a sarcastic and annoyed sneer at his remark, while passing a hand to his face.

“And I, the Prince. That child is too much trouble for me. He has taken the worst of both.”

Howland observed Arthur Dayne with an understanding look on his face. Sometimes he forgot that Dayne knew Lyanna as much as he did, if not even more. He had spent almost a year with her when she became the Prince Rhaegar's wife.

“He has also taken the better.”

That was Mark's response. And Howland saw exactly what he meant.

“He looks a lot like his father…” he declared, to follow the words of the Ryswell.

“You have no idea how much.” Arthur Dayne answered . “Even if the Daynes are known for this feature, we can consider ourselves fortunate that he was not born with his father's hair… I do not know how Lord Stark or I could have explained it.”

The solution was simple in Howland's mind.

“We would have hidden him, Ser Arthur, quite simply. I could have hidden him in the Neck if I had to. The House Reed would have been happy to welcome a young man of such potential. And you, of course.”

Arthur Dayne watched him for a few seconds, as if he was weighing the pros and cons of something in his mind. Howland didn't have to wait long to find out what it was, even though he already had an idea of what it might have been.

“I'll hold you to your word, Lord Howland, on your magical formation proposal.”

Mark looked at them with an incredibly satisfying and equally funny puzzled expression.

“Wait, it wasn't a joke?” he blew with uncertainty.

Howland looked at him for a moment before smiling at him.

“My dear Mark, I never joke on such an important subject.”

“So you believe it. In magic…”

“And you don't, I presume.”

“Well, I mean, even though I am far from being the most fervent of them, I am still a disciple of the faith of the Seven…”

 _Obviously_ , he thought. This was _Ser_ Mark Ryswell after all. The order of the Knights of the Seven Kingdoms remained an essentially Andal institution that responded to the Faith of the Seven. Even if there were some “pagan” northerners in its midst, their presence was exceptional. The knights of the North actually followed the Seven and a knight following the Old Gods was almost a paradox in itself.

“I see, I see. Which explains your hindsight on the very concept of magic…” he whispers humbly. Or was it Mark Ryswell's character to show hindsight and discernment in front of everything. Magic, even for northerners who respected northern traditions and cults, remained a subject to be considered as superstition or with suspicion, or both. Eddard was a perfect example of those. “Well, to answer you sincerely, I don't believe in something that I know for sure exists, Mark. Magic exists. It's everywhere, it surrounds us, like the Old Gods.”

“I can attest to that,” Arthur Dayne added in an acquiescence. “The Prince could see the future up to some extent.”

“…really?”

Mark looked at them uncertainly, but his propensity to believe them was quite openly noted. For his part, Howland could certainly believe Arthur Dayne. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was no ordinary man. Arthur Dayne then resumed, mainly to his own attention.

“Prince Rhaegar used to say that Targaryens are regularly endowed with prescience. He called it dragon dreams. Prince Ægon seems to have inherited this ability and it is the source of many of his eccentricities. This worries me for the future. Rhaegar was already an adult when his... visions began to become particularly intense. He had the discernment to control himself. Aegon is only a child. I'm afraid that this ability will eventually overwhelm him. Lord Stark and I have had a great deal of discussion on the matter, but we're very uncertain as to how to proceed.”

“I see…” Howland sighed before plunging into deep reflections.

“Was my name mentioned?”

The three of them looked upon a newcomer. Ned Stark's dark gray eyes gleamed with curiosity. Howland suspected why, after all it was not banal to see Ser Arthur Dayne discussing so freely and familiarly with him and Mark Ryswell.

They greeted him with their eyes and let him approach. The Lord of Winterfell then came and sat down beside them, taking his place on one of the few stones that remained unoccupied on the edge of the black pond.

“I can see you've met Jon.” Ned said to him and Mark.

“We were just talking about him, Lord Eddard.” replied the latter in his polite and cordial tone. “He's a lively child.”

Eddard squinted upon his last remark and looked at all three of them.

“Did he give you any trouble?” he finally asked.

To that, he and Mark could only utter an embarrassed laugh, while Arthur Dayne's particularly annoyed look was sufficiently evocative. Eddard got the gist of his answer, but Howland decided he had to explain why they were reacting that way.

“He surprised us at the wrong time. We were talking about his visions and he almost heard things he shouldn't hear now.”

Eddard gave a sigh that almost sounded like a whimper.

“May the gods keep us, and especially may they keep this boy. He has an unfortunate tendency to invite himself into places he's not allowed to go. Well, I see... What do you think, Howland? About his visions and so forth. Your abilities as a mystic might be able to shed some light.”

 _As a mystic._ Howland laughed in his mind. Eddard's vocabulary could be reductive without him wanting to, even though he knew his lord Stark didn't see any insult in it. He was just a stranger to magic and its rituals. He saw, however, that his companions were listening and awaiting his verdict.

“I may not be able to give you a straight answer, Eddard. Nor you, Ser Arthur. Magic is a vast field… Perhaps these are the green dreams spoken of in the books of House Reed, but from what you've told me, Ser Arthur, Prince Rhaegar and the Targaryens are blessed with a magic of their own. As for Lady Lyana's little one… The Old Gods are agitated in his presence, but I'm not sure what that means yet, I'm afraid…”

Arthur Dayne and Eddard looked uncertain at each other. Howland knew his answer might not be the most satisfactory. No doubt they expected a clear statement and equally clear solutions or methods. But magic was far from being a clear and controlled discipline. It was a field full of mysteries and all the more so now, when it had disappeared from most parts of Westeros and when small groups — the Targaryens, the citadel of the Maesters, a few noble families such as the Blackwoods or specific populations such as the crannogmen — jealously guarded their knowledge and practices in this domain.

“Why would you not ask Maester Luwin for advice?” asked the crannogman. “Didn't he study magic?”

“We thought about it, of course…”

Eddard's answer was not very well substantiated since he didn't speak any more, immersed again in his thoughts.

“But you didn't consult him…?”

Howland had left his reply open to an answer from Eddard, but it was Arthur Dayne, against all odds, who answered in place of the Stark.

“Because we do not yet wish to expose the prince's case to Maester Luwin. We prefer that the subject comes naturally and that Maester Luwin comes to us rather than the other way round. We want to be completely sure of his intentions towards the prince.”

“You do not trust him?”

Once again, Eddard and Arthur Dayne looked at each other. The dark gaze of the Lord of Winterfell was particularly disturbing. The Lord of Winterfell intervened.

“I'd rather be careful. I trust Maester Luwin to a certain extent, but I have reason to believe his predecessor, Maester Wallys, didn't have the interests of the realm, House Stark or House Targaryen at heart. I want to be sure of his allegiances first, so we will keep observing him. For the time being.”

Howland knew there was more to the story, but he didn't insist. He understood. Entrusting a maester specializing in magical knowledge of the anomalies that surrounded the prince, including his dreams, exposed the secret of his filiation. And they had to be absolutely sure of the maester's loyalty before they attempted to do anything about the prince. This was what made him decide to finally respond to the demands of his two companions.

“I cannot promise you anything solid, but if you give me some time to think about it, I might have some methods to propose that will help him understand and master at least part of his abilities. If he is a skinchanger, these mind exercises will do him a lot of good and will also help him to develop his abilities. At this age, that is primordial.”

Eddard nodded, satisfied with his answer.

“Thank you very much, Howland. Do what you can within your capabilities. That is all we will ask. We will make sure you are rewarded accordingly.”

Eddard didn't even need to thank him. The truth was, he didn't need to be paid or compensated in any way. The curious face and the laughing violet eyes of the little prince came to his mind, bringing a tender smile to his face.

To Lady Lyana's little one, he would do anything.

* * *

**THE HIDDEN PRINCE**

The frictions of Maester Luwin’s feather on the parchment were the only sounds that disturbed the silence of the room in which they were sitting. The old maester's expression was neutral and he seemed particularly focused on his task, but Jon knew very well that underneath this welcoming air lay a stern and demanding master. Jon knew that the man would scold him at the second he deigned to disturb him, something that was difficult not to do given the extent of his boredom. For Jon was deeply bored, but this was not so surprising since he was being held against his will in this very room, as punishment, to copy texts in characters incomprehensible to him, just like the old maester.

Jon had learned to read very early on. So early, in fact, that he had frightened Maester Luwin and Father when they had caught him reading an old common tongue book about tales and legends of Westeros. He had barely been four years old at the time. Uncle Arthur had encouraged him to continue, insisting that Maester Luwin should enrich his lessons, even if it meant taking more responsibility for him than his brother Robb. Jon knew that Robb did not like to read very much. He preferred to play outside with the blacksmith's sons. At first, Jon had not liked it either, but Uncle Arthur's insistence had got the better of his stubbornness and he had finally agreed to be more in the presence of Maester Luwin even though the heraldry lessons made him very unhappy.

But if there was one thing that Jon hated more than anything else at Winterfell, it was the old maester's punishments when he did something stupid or ran away, for it didn't matter how much he liked reading books about the dragons, the giant wolves that accompanied the legendary Kings of Winter or the mysterious Children of the Forest, when it came to copying those damn grimoires that he didn't understand anything about. For they were essentially old history books and registers that Maester Luwin had possessed for many years. He had decided to copy them in their entirety in order to preserve their supposedly precious encrypted content, which he claimed was written in Valyrian. Or more precisely in High Valyrian, which was the original and ancient linguistic form of Valyrian, as Maester Luwin had explained to him. A dead language according to his words: the language of Old Valyria and its empire, the Valyrian Freehold.

With the collapse of the House Targaryen, the last native speakers of High Valyrian had left and only the derived and bastard languages that had been built on its disappearance remained, such as the dialects spoken in the Free Cities, such as the Myrian or the Volantian, or even the bastard Valyrian, a unified Valyrian-Ghiscari dialect spoken by the inhabitants of the country of Ghiscar. At any rate, this was what Jon remembered, according to the teachings that Maester Luwin had brought to him and Robb.

Jon was pretty sure that Robb had already forgotten all about their lessons on the subject.

“Your head is in the stars again, Jon.” Maester Luwin spontaneously expressed, giving him the look. “If you waste too much time daydreaming, it'll be dark before you even finish your work.”

Jon did not respond to Maester Luwin and obediently resumed his work. Unlike the common tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, which was composed of letters, the High Valyrian was composed of hundreds, if not thousands, of ideograms, and each of them had its own subtle tangle of lines and loops. Thus, with the exception of about fifty characters on which he had ended up adapting as he practiced, the rest remained very complicated to reproduce. Copying text was therefore a particularly laborious task in itself, beyond the fact that writing for three hours now was beginning to exhaust his little hands. All the more so as the difficulty of this work lay in its meticulous aspect. Jon didn't know what he was copying, and it was easy to confuse the order or form of certain characters when they were either meaningless in form as well as devoid of any sense. And even though it was not the first time he had been punished in this way, it was still easy to make mistakes. And the thought of Uncle Arthur's disappointed looks had convinced Jon early on that he did not like to do badly what he was doing.

Time went by without Jon even really realizing it. His mind had wandered several times, especially at the thought of his brother, who must have been outside playing with their sister Sansa. Beth and Greta, the Cassel cousins, must have been there, as well as little Jeyne Poole. It had snowed a lot yesterday, but very little today, and the weather had been mild and clement. He imagined them all together building snowmen. Sansa loved it, although naive and small as she was, she tended to forget that it was very cold and that she dressed the snowmen with her own clothes, especially her scarves. Often Jon would cover her himself with his own coat to prevent her from catching cold.

“Whatever happens, always protect your little sister.” Father told him. And Jon had lived by those words ever since Sansa was born. Especially now that Father had gone to war against the vile lord of the Iron Islands, taking Ser Martyn and their strange friends with him. Lord Howland Reed had been the strangest, asking him all these nonsensical questions, but he had remained the most amusing. Of all, however, he missed Father the most.

“Looks like you're done” said Maester Luwin as he passed behind him. The man bent down and observed his work with a concentrated air, before nodding proudly. “Good. It seems your calligraphy is improving to a great extent. That'll be enough for today, Jon. I'll continue where you left off later.”

Maester Luwin then seized the two books in front of him, the one he copied the contents of and the one he was supposed to copy onto. Carefully closing them, he went to deposit them on one of the furnished shelves of one of the bookcases fixed to the walls of the room. The sight of the room's bookcases and the many books and grimoires arranged alphabetically on them reminded us what a strange place Maester Luwin's study was. Beyond the few particularly well-ordered bookshelves, the rest of the place was a dusty space saturated with parchments and old junk. Books lay here and there, so much so that it was difficult to sit at one of the tables without touching anything or dropping something possibly important. Jon had always been careful, out of politeness to his senior but also to avoid any reprimands. Luwin, however, seemed to find his way through this exceptional jumble of paper and tissue, and spent most of his time there without even feeling the need to find something lost. He found everything, even if it was not in the right place.

“May I go now, Maester Luwin?”

The old maester turned to him as soon as he heard his question. He seemed to think for a few seconds.

“I guess you may go.” he said calmly. “I suppose you can also come with me to visit the colony.”

If Jon had started from the room, almost too eager to join his brother and their friends, he stopped all movement as soon as he understood what Maester Luwin was suggesting. He turned to him and appreciated the old man's laughing eyes, easily guessing his own delighted expression. For there was only one type of colony in Winterfell that was worth mentioning. And it was the very same one that could make him forget any other potential hobby, no matter how recreational it might be.

Refraining from jumping up and down with impatience, Jon humbled himself and approached the old man in a docile manner. “If you don't mind, I'd like to come with you… Maester Luwin.” The man soon laughed at his formal demeanour.

“All right. Follow me, little wolf.” he answered.

Jon was without any hesitation in his obligation and walked in the old man's footsteps. The old man stuck his right hand into the left sleeve of his robe made of wool and seemed to search inside it for a few moments. Eventually he pulled out a heavy bunch of keys, some of which already beginning to rust. Giving him a gentle glance to move away, the maester began to lock the door to his quarters, before returning to the staircase which was not far away, a few meters to their right, leading to the upper floors.

Maester Luwin's quarters were in a relatively isolated part of Winterfell. The Maester's Turret, to be exact, which was located to the west of the castle and provided him with about ten rooms and thus a large working space. Not that he particularly needed it, from what Jon had concluded by wandering through it several times: most of the space was used as storage, although one room seemed to be a sort of laboratory, connected to his office, judging from the many vials of sometimes fluorescent liquids that were found there. But the most interesting of Maester Luwin's quarters was the famous colony, as he liked to call it, which was located just above his office and part of which was in the open air.

It was no other colony than the rookery of Winterfell.

He wasn't even two years old when he first set foot there, as Father had brought him there to stimulate his interest in something other than his toys of the time. And he had clearly succeeded. This place had always fascinated Jon. He'd never really been able to understand why. Robb had little interest in it, and Sansa was afraid of it. But he wasn't.

For he loved ravens, he loved their plumage as dark and black as his hair, he loved their silence and secrecy, which reminded him of himself. With a raven perched on his wrist, he had this strange feeling of being in his element, accepted simply for who he was. He loved ravens, and the ravens seemed to love him in return.

“It's always a spectacle to see you here, Jon.” said Maester Luwin as he watched with emotion. “According to your father, your great-grandfather Edwyle Stark was also loved by ravens. Not only him, either. Your aunt Lyanna spent a lot of time here too. Normally, corbelry is the privilege of the maesters, but you could probably become a very great corbeler. You really have inherited the blood of the Blackwoods, and the gods know they're renowned and talented in the field.”

Jon didn't answer and just stroked one of his favourite ravens, a one-year-old male that he had been caring for since he hatched while listening to the old maester. The little feathery creature had apparently swallowed his index finger and held it jealously in his beak without moving an inch. A clear sign of affection if ever there was one. Ravens were intelligent birds.

“Father often says I look a lot like a Blackwood. More than Robb and Sansa.”

Maester Luwin laughed at his remark.

“Oh, you bet he did, boy. Your hair as black as the night is a distinguishing feature. Many Starks since the days of Cregan Stark have inherited that colour. And Lady Melantha, your great-great-grandmother, was also a Blackwood. That is indeed the blood of Black Aly running through your veins.”

Lady Alysanne Blackwood. Black Aly as she was known in the North. The beautiful She-Raven that had seduced the mighty wolf of Winterfell when he came back to the North, following the Dance of the Dragons. Jon had always liked to learn more about his southern ancestry, if it could be said that the Blackwoods came from the south. The truth was that they were of northern ancestry and were once the kings and queens of the wolfswood. He, Father and Uncle Benjen shared so much in common with this mythical family. The House Blackwood of Raventree Hall. He had always loved stories about the adventures of Black Betha and King Aegon the Unlikely, as well as those about the grim and dangerous Bloodraven, the Targaryen with a thousand eyes, and one, who was said to practice witchcraft. He had been loved by ravens too.

“Robb and Sansa don't have the hair of the Blackwoods.” he said, bearing in mind the auburn complexion of his brother and sister's hair. “They have Mother’s hair. That must be why she's distant with me. Father often tells me not to worry about it.”

Maester Luwin looked at him hesitantly, his expression changing at his last line and Jon soon knew why. When the subject drifted to Mother, Robb and Sansa, Maester Luwin would quickly end any discussion if he started asking too many questions. This was the case with all adults. Ser Martyn and Ser Rodrik, Steward Vayon Poole, and even Father and Uncle Arthur. No one would tell him why he didn't look like his brother or sister, or even why Mother was so distant with him. Jon was careful not to show his frustration to the old man.

“Well… Robb and Sansa inherited the blood of the Tully of Riverrun... Which is why their hair is almost red and their eyes are blue.”

The House Tully, as well as the House Blackwood, was a noble House of the south of the Riverlands. Their seat was located at Riverrun, at the confluence of the Redfork and Tumblestone rivers. A noble house which was much more important than that of the raven trainers, since it was the one of the Lords Paramount of the Trident, rulers of the Riverlands.

An uncomfortable silence settled then, the mention of Mother having thrown a cold on this moment of relaxation. The ravens of the rookery filled the place with their crows, obviously trying to compensate for the strange atmosphere with their dark and mysterious presence.

And Gobbler on his arm.

“Don't you think that Gobbler has gotten a lot bigger these last few days, Maester Luwin?” he asked afterwards, out of concern to change the subject and to remedy the situation he had contributed to install, while observing the raven still as quiet as ever.

“Gobbler”, that was how he had named the clever one who was clinging onto him. He had laughed a lot the first time the bird swallowed his finger. Gobbler was smaller at the time, just out of its nestling state.

And so was he.

“Ravens grow between the first and second year. He will soon be twice that size.” announced Maester Luwin, to his great surprise. For Gobbler was almost as big as his head and he was already struggling to keep him steady on his arm. “Soon he will be able to take his first flight over the North and deliver his first messages.”

“But how will he find his way back? All he's ever known is the colony and its cages, Maester Luwin.”

Maester Luwin approached and petted the bird.

“Westeros ravens are special animals, Jon. Some say that they are creatures of magical origin. The Children of the Forest have been using them to deliver messages since the dawn of time, and the First Men continued this practice even after the Andals came. It's in their genes.”

“Are they really?”

“Really what, Jon?”

Maester Luwin observed him, without understanding his question at first. Then Jon clarified.

“Magic, I mean. Are they really magic animals?”

Jon looked at Gobbler, who, true to his name, continued to gobble his finger and stare at him with his red eyes. Jon wasn't a raven, but he was willing to bet that Gobbler's gaze was an affectionate one. But it was hard to believe that such an animal was magic. _And yet ravens always find their way back and deliver messages in places they've never seen_ , he thought. He knew he'd never be able to do it.

“You see that, Jon?” said Maester Luwin, pointing to one of the links of the strange chain he wore around his chest. It was a different link from the rest: it was dark, smoky, almost black, as if it had been put through fire. It looked like Father’s greatsword, Ice. “It's a link made of Valyrian steel. You remember our lesson about Old Valyria and their dragons, don't you, Jon?”

“Yes, Maester Luwin. You said Valyrian steel is a steel of magical origin and the way to make it was lost after the terrible Doom of Valyria.”

“Exactly, Jon. You've learned your lesson well. Considering the chains that the maesters forge once they have completed their studies, this link of Valyrian steel means that I have gained a certain amount of knowledge about magic.”

“Oh!”

“Don't rejoice too soon, my boy.” replied the man in a small laugh. “Alas, my knowledge of magic is far too meagre to enlighten your questions. And if magic ever existed, its era is long gone. The Targaryen dragons were the remnants of it, and they've been extinct for a very long time.”

“Oh…”

The lively curiosity that had animated him about whether or not ravens were magical faded as quickly as it had appeared. And Maester Luwin's apparent amusement, as he saw it shining in his old eyes, was not particularly to his liking. He turned his attention to Gobbler, who had let go of his finger and was now turning around on himself, observing his surroundings but not escaping.

“Nevertheless…” Luwin said softly. “I couldn't explain it, but to some extent I think there is still some magic in ravens. There is no other explanation that such an animal could find its destination by its mere mention.”

Having made his point, Maester Luwin returned to his duties and checked the condition of the raven cages, filling the pots that appeared to be empty with food and water, and carefully inspecting the birds for the slightest abnormality. Jon calmly watched him until he had enough and came to inspect the creatures in his turn. Seeing him move with the intention of crossing the room, Gobbler proudly climbed onto his left shoulder and stood there in silence. Jon then performed a ritual that he had become accustomed to performing every time he went into the rookery. A set of large pots were placed on a table that occupied one of the corners of the room. Jon opened the largest of them without further hesitation.

Before he had even removed the lid from the clay container, Gobbler had grabbed onto its rim and was waiting impatiently. The jar was filled with meal, and it took only a few seconds for Jon to search inside it and pull out a big gesticulating worm. The state of excitement, as apparent as it might be on a raven, was quite perceptible to him as soon as he offered the little beast to Gobbler. Then another, and another. Jon laughed at the raven's nervous movements and joyful jolts. Gobbler was indeed aptly named.

“Don't stuff him, Jon.” he heard behind his back. “Don't get him used to luxury and laziness. Mealworms are sweets that we use as a reward. It serves as motivation when we send the ravens out. If you spoil him this much, he will become lazy and will be of poor efficiency in the future.”

“Yes, Maester Luwin.” he replied, closing the jar almost reluctantly.

Grabbing Gobbler with both hands, he finally brought him to the old maester. A last croak of greeting and the fellow returned to his cage, returning among his own. And from then on, the contrast of his size with the other ravens became apparent, the latter standing out from the crowd in a strange, almost intimidating way. The contrast did not escape the watchful eye of the old maester.

“You were right, Jon. Gobbler's really put on a lot of weight. I did not realize how much. It is… curious.”

Jon didn't know what to answer, but he noticed by the worried gleam in Maester Luwin's eyes that the latter was already immersed in intense reflections and that his supposed curiosity was being replaced by uncertain and preoccupied interrogations. And he also realised that he had been right. A raven shouldn't be so big at this age, even if it was fed with mealworms every week.

For it was as if the raven had gotten bigger by magic.

***

“Caught in your thoughts again, Prince Aemon!”

The terrible blow that Jon narrowly escaped with his sword instantly took him out of his distracted thoughts. He immediately refocused his attention on his terrible opponent, who was already ruthlessly brandishing his weapon and whose sardonic laughter filled the court. It was none other than his brother Robb.

“Beware, you vile Morgil Hastwyck!” replied Jon, brandishing his glorious blade.

The confrontation was terrible. Robb was strong, much stronger than he was. But Jon soon knew he was faster. What he didn't have in ferocity, he soon learned to compensate it with velocity. The blows rained and the impacts of the wooden swords echoed through the snowy courtyard, and with it, their laughs. Ignoring the snow, Jon continued to struggle with his brother and they threw at each other with overplayed quibbles to stage their characters. Robb was the terrible Morgil Hastwyck, the abominable perjurer hired by Aegon the Unworthy, and he was Aemon the Dragonknight, the brave and fearless prince.

They were fighting for the honour of Queen Naerys, whom Sansa, who laughed and encouraged them on the side, embodied without really grasping what was at stake. She had given up building her snowman to watch them, leaving the cousins Beth and Greta Cassel and little Jeyne Poole to carry on without her. 

Jon and Robb often played this way. One day, Father would train them in the art of the sword and they would become brave warriors like him. Robb was destined to succeed Father and become the Lord of Winterfell. Jon, on the other hand, dreamed of becoming a great swordsman, or even a fearless knight like Prince Aemon Dragonknight. The greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, like Uncle Arthur. He wanted to defeat formidable enemies and return as a hero.

He dodged a sword thrust from Robb in a laugh which his brother soon returned to him, and they went on without really caring what was around them. Jon was on the defensive and backed away from the onslaught of his older brother. He suspected that he would eventually give in if he continued to back down. Robb had already beaten him in this way several times. Then Jon remembered a move he had seen his uncle perform in front of Ser Martyn and let a gestural epiphany take hold of him. Letting Robb enter his personal space, he deflected another blow from the boy and took advantage of the momentum gained from his move to turn around. In a shout accompanying his gesture, he managed to hit Robb while the latter was at his mercy, with his flank exposed. In an instant, Robb collapsed in the snow, and Jon could not help but go off with a high-pitched, jubilant laughter.

Unsure and haggard, Robb straightened up before turning back to him.

“H-How did you do that?”

“I don't know.” replied Jon, calming his hilarious jolts. “I just imitated Uncle Arthur. I've seen him do it.”

“That was amazing, Jon! I didn't even see you coming… You looked like a knight!”

“Jon Knight, the Princess! Save her!”

Sansa approached them hopping, her eyes sparkling with happiness. Jon hugged Sansa and lifted her up in a small laugh. Echoing him, Sansa hugged him without waiting.

“You are saved, my queen.” he delivered, imitating with difficulty the tone of a gentleman knight, but the laughter of Sansa and Robb was enough for him.

“You win this time, Prince Aemon, but someday I shall have my revenge and capture the queen!”

And with his reply, Robb threw himself at them before he began to tickle Sansa. Their sister's laughter grew louder and louder.

Robb and Sansa Stark. Their hair was auburn, almost red, especially Sansa's, which seemed to have borrowed it from Mother. Their eyes were bright blue, a little lighter than Mother's, but they looked so much like her that he sometimes felt left out, as if he didn't belong to the siblings. And yet Jon loved them deeply.

Robb was his dear older brother, his friend in everything, they played as much as they wanted when they could and often even when they were not supposed to. Robb was much less wise than he was and often led him on many adventures and escapades. They were almost always together no matter what, and this had been the case since their birth, if what Father said was true. Even though Robb was older than he was, they had always been relatively the same height. He had never had the feeling that his brother was an elder, although the people in the castle kept telling him so for reasons that were incomprehensible: Jon had already understood that Robb was the elder.

Sansa was his adorable little sister, his little princess. When she was not in the custody of Septa Mordane or when Mother did not take care of her, Jon could be sure that Sansa would come and follow him everywhere. In fact, she had been struggling to follow him everywhere since she had learned to walk. Father had told him many times that it would be his responsibility to protect her one day when they were older. Jon had answered that he would not wait until he was older and that he would start now. He had stuck to his words, and what he invested in attention, Sansa returned in affection. And often, even though Robb seemed to take their sibling bond for granted and unknowingly dismissed his concerns, it was his little sister's innocent attachment that convinced him that he belonged there, and allayed his fears.

 _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ That's what Father told him before he left. To Robb and Sansa, he was part of the pack.

“Robb, Sansa, it's time for your lessons with Septa Mordane.”

Mother's voice echoed through the courtyard, making them stop what they were doing. Lady Catelyn Stark stood there and watched them with a neutral eye. Old Valyon Poole, who was Jeyne's father and Ser Rodrik, who was Beth's father and Greta's uncle respectively, stood beside her. The three adults seemed to have been watching them for a few moments.

“Mama!” Sansa shouted at once before wiggling in his arms. Mother's voice had brought her sister out of her dreams. Jon quickly let her go, so the little Stark girl rushed to her mother without worrying about anything else. Robb walked towards Mother, and Jon simply followed him slowly in silence, knowing that she had not called him. His suspicions proved to be correct, for Mother spared no glance at him, preferring to concentrate on his brother and sister with lots of caresses and other affectionate gestures. Gestures that she had never had towards him.

Jon didn't dare to show himself and stayed at a reasonable distance, but when Mother took Sansa in her arms and embraced her with such affection, he couldn't stop his heart from twisting in frustration and envy. Father had told him to be patient, that one day he would understand and that until then he should wait patiently. Uncle Arthur had told him to be strong, to become as strong as Valyrian steel. That it was necessary. But to be confronted with his mother's indifference was painful and forced him to ask himself many questions. Did she hate him? And if so, did she hate him because he wasn't like her, like Robb and Sansa? Had he done something bad that he didn't remember? Father had never answered him and he had never dared to ask Mother. He was afraid of her answer.

Therefore he just watched them, as always, from the side. Sansa seemed particularly intrigued by their mother's pregnant belly. Maester Luwin had revealed to him that they would have a little brother or sister in a little less than three moons.

And like almost every day in the middle of the afternoon, Mother took Robb and Sansa away without even a word to him. The feeling of loneliness that was already gripping him strongly increased when he saw that Sir Poole and Ser Rodrik were doing the same with their own daughters and niece and that he found himself alone. The presence of the few Stark guards whose task was undoubtedly to watch over him changed nothing. In the lack of any other occupation, Jon began to walk in the footprints that were here and there in the snow, sometimes jumping when they were too far apart to simply join them in one step.

Since Father and Ser Martyn had gone to war, Jon felt even more alone than before. Of course, Robb was still around, but it wasn't the same. Mother came to pick him and Sansa up much earlier and Ser Martyn was no longer there to make jokes or tell him stories about the knights. In the past, even Father used to come and look after him after the afternoon playtime. Sometimes he would take him and Robb to the stables and teach them how to ride horses. He had told them that when they were older, the three of them would go bear hunting in the wolfswood, just like the Kings of Winter, their mythical ancestors, used to do. Jon couldn't wait for such a moment to come. He would have liked to be all grown up right now and ride himself through the woods and across the plains.

It was with these thoughts of freedom and open spaces that Uncle Arthur appeared at the south corner of the courtyard. The loneliness which had gripped him immediately shattered, as did the impatience which always reigned during these moments of transition.

“Uncle!” he exclaimed with excitement.

He came hastily to stand in front of the Dayne, forgetting everything else.

“Are you alone?” he quickly questioned him. He looked on both sides of the courtyard in search of something. Or someone. “Where's Lady Stark and her children? Did they leave?”

“A few minutes ago.” Jon answered.

His uncle remained silent and shook his head in an air of disappointment, the reason for which Jon didn't quite understand.

“Come on, let's not dawdle. It's time to practice.”

The Dayne didn't even let him answer and returned to one of the courtyard entrances. And like every day at this time since Mother were picking up Robb and Sansa much earlier, Jon followed his uncle, ready to begin his daily physical exercises earlier.

***

“Come on, keep going! Just a little bit more!”

Jon felt the strength in his muscles leaving him. He tried to hold on as best he could and took it upon himself, trying to forget the caress of the fresh wind on his face and its whisper in his ears. He tried to ignore the sweat oozing from his hair and dripping down to the tip of his nose. The trembling that gripped his arms and legs were so many factors of instability, as were the burning sensations that tightened the muscles in his back.

“Courage and perseverance, young man!”

In the end, Uncle Arthur's encouragements were in vain for Jon could not hold out any longer. His breaths gave up and the energy that had been holding his aching limbs up to that point evaporated as quickly as the sweat on his skin. In an instant he collapsed face down on the ground. He couldn't even hear his uncle's reprimands anymore... He didn't even know if his uncle had said anything, as his sight vanished in front of him and the adrenaline that had been maintaining him was replaced by an incredibly heavy feeling of exhaustion.

Completely weary, Jon turned with difficulty on his back and struggled softly against the dizziness that made his head spin as his gaze was lost in the heavens. It was often the same after the physical exercises imposed by his uncle. Each time he felt as if he was falling into the sky, a bit like in his dreams, his vision altered by confusion and exhaustion making the clouds and the blue of the sky disappear in a strange whirlwind.

His uncle had told him that this pain he was imposing on him was absolutely necessary. It was the training of the young boys of the House Dayne, he said, the training of the best knights and swordsmen of the Seven Kingdoms. That did not prevent Jon from thinking that Uncle Arthur was a tormentor. In any case, he seemed to enjoy watching him suffer and just for that alone, Jon was convinced of his sadism.

“Let's call it a day.”

His uncle's line appeared to him as a true deliverance, as it did every time the Sword of the Morning would put an end to their daily training. Struggling not to regurgitate the contents of his lunch, Jon finally sat down. He was so warmed up that he couldn't even feel the cold air or the snowflakes.

Uncle Arthur looked at him with his usual impassive look, but Jon knew him well. Jon knew from hearing him that his present master was not satisfied with his performance.

“You have to learn to endure pain, Jon. You have to be tough and you have to hold it all the way through. You cannot give up, you have to try… you have to _do it_.”

Jon frowned, upset at his uncle's unjust verdict. He had done his best, he was sure. Uncle Arthur was cruel. What he demanded was simply too much! How could anyone stand on his arms and legs for so long? And what good would it do him anyway? Then the knight's words immediately came to his mind. “ _You'll thank me when you're older, my boy. The stamina you develop will become your best defence and your body will become your weapon. A swordsman has no better sword than the strength of his arm and the firmness of his grip on the ground._ ”

“It's unfair uncle… I did the best I could.”

“I know you did your best.” the man replied calmly. “But you have to do even better than that. You have to listen to me. You can't settle for the best. You have to go beyond it.”

“But that's not possible! It's too hard!”

“Yes, it is possible, Jon. It's all in your head.” the Dayne said, accompanying his answer with a tap of his index finger on the corner of his forehead.

Jon let himself fall back to the ground and put his head down, before looking up at the sky again. His mind was already a little clearer.

“Don't rest yet.” the man exclaimed. “Snow is starting to fall again. If we stay here, we'll catch a cold. Let's go back to the castle first.”

Jon almost sighed with weariness, but he couldn't let his uncle hear him. His uncle would not fail to reproach him for his attitude, as he did every time Jon did something he didn't like. _Father isn't so mean and stern_ , he thought. _At least when he was around, I used to ride with Robb._ He longed for his loving presence and his watchful eye over the courtyard from the palisade that led to the Winterfell dungeon. He was always there watching him and Robb when they played or when Ser Rodrik and Ser Martyn gave them some archery lessons. He longed for his affection when he would bring them to his study to tell them stories about the Seven Kingdoms and the House Stark. They would climb into his lap and listen to him as they hugged him. In his arms, he would feel like he belonged there, accepted, protected, so much so that he had even fallen asleep against him many times. He missed Father so much.

Jon finally got up and started to follow the uncle who didn't wait for him for very long. Accelerating his steps, he came to keep up with his uncle's pace as best he could and observed their position. They had both been running for perhaps an hour before they stopped where they were. There was nothing here except the tundra and the incredible panorama of the North. The winter town could be seen in the distance, ahead of their path, and Winterfell was behind it, dominating the vast expanse of the central fiefdom of the House Stark. Behind them in the distance was the immense, dark silhouette of the wolfswood, shrouded in mystery and danger.

Jon had never been there, but Father and Uncle Arthur and Ser Martyn had guaranteed that he would go there one day, like all the Starks before him. “ _But before you even think about it, you have to get stronger and you have to listen to me! The wolfswood isn't for little boys who cannot handle a sword or draw a bow._ ” always reminded him the Dayne, to his great frustration. On this point, however, Jon never talked back. Because he knew that the wolfswood was a dangerous place, he wasn't stupid after all! Besides, they had to go there on horseback, and Father would never allow him and Robb to ride anything but a pony for long…

“Do you think Father and his bannermen will return soon, Uncle?”

Jon honestly didn't expect Arthur Dayne to have any idea, or even to give him a straight answer. He had asked the question more as a way of breaking the silence that was becoming unbearable for him.

“What would I know about it.” replied the Dayne with no real surprise. “I know that he won't be back until next year. A military campaign can take a long time, Jon. Especially when a lot of troops are mobilized and there are plans to take them on ships.”

Uncle Arthur had answered him anyway. Sometimes Jon felt like the slightest thing could upset him. The Dayne was a man of few words and very little contact, either physical or verbal. He preferred silence and solitude. Jon could boast that he was the only one who could make him talk so much, apart from Father. And perhaps Father's banners, too. Jon remembered that Uncle Arthur had been very talkative in their presence, even though he hadn't quite understood why Dorne had been their favorite topic of discussion.

His other uncle was much nicer. Jon didn't know him very well for he was never at Winterfell. But Uncle Benjen was probably the most affectionate person Jon had ever known. Whenever he was at Winterfell, he never let him go. They played constantly, Uncle Benjen would even take him for a ride on his horse and they'd roam around for hours talking about anything and everything. Father had told him that Uncle Benjen was a supervisor that were moving between Winterfell and its borders, that he was organizing the rebuilding of Moat Cailin in the south and many other fortresses, especially the ruined ones at the Wall. _I wish he were more at home... When he's here, Uncle Arthur is less stern and nasty to me._ It was probably the first thing Jon noticed.

But Uncle Benjen had been away in the south for a long time now. Supposedly to help an old friend of theirs named Ethan Glover to renovate a stronghold across the sea, according to what Father had been kind enough to tell him when he had asked the question. And according to him, his kind uncle would not be back for another two years. He had been very frustrated when he heard about it.

They soon arrived near the winter town. With the departure of Father's banners, the town seemed almost extinct. They didn't pass anyone on the main avenue, but as the afternoon began, it was relatively normal. People were at home or had gone to the mill to work the grain. As for everyone else, they had surely followed the army gathered by Father as it headed south. From what he had understood, one side was to join at Moat Cailin while the other was to go down to Seaguard in the Riverlands, to defend the kingdom from the vile Ironborn.

Travelling up the road to Winterfell, Jon and Arthur finally arrived at the open gates of the castle, which they passed through under the watchful eyes and greetings of the few Stark guards present.

“Don't forget about what you have to do later, Jon. I'm going to be particularly busy today and tomorrow, so I'm counting on you not to cause any trouble. I've asked Ser Rodrik to keep an eye on you and he won't be gentle with you if you plan anything. So don't let me catch you running away again!”

“Yes, Uncle.” said Jon.

“And remember to do the exercises that Lord Howland suggested when Maester Luwin takes you to the rookery. And the ones you should do at night before bed. Do you remember which ones?”

“Yes, Uncle…” he repeated in the same tone.

Arthur Dayne nodded in satisfaction and said nothing more. Jon did not seek to solicit him any further and took advantage of this silent interlude to stare at him. These days, he was often off duty. He came to see him to perfect his training, but he didn't seem to be in his wake anymore. Now Uncle Arthur spent most of his time in his quarters, writing strange things on message scrolls. It was strange not to feel the Dayne following him in the shadows as he often did.

He had once snuck into his uncle's room and searched through the piles of documents but had found nothing interesting. It wasn't even written in Valyrian characters, but it looked like letters. But Jon still remembered the strange characters, and above all, the huge caged bird which had been silently watching him all along. A bird of prey that he had recognized from one of Maester Luwin's biology textbooks. A Brown-headed eagle of the Red Mountains… An eagle that originated from Dorne. Jon didn't know until he saw it and saw a falconry glove next to the cage that his uncle knew about bird of prey training. He had never even seen this bird before that day. Then his uncle had surprised him and made him swear not to tell anyone about it. So he didn't say anything so he wouldn't be punished, because Uncle Arthur could be really terrible when he was angry.

Thinking of that bird reminded him of the exercises that Lord Howland had urged him to practice before leaving with Father. The crannogman had told him to spend more time with Gobbler and to take him out of his cage more often. Then he told him to do several meditation exercises in the presence of his raven and then the same exercises in the evening, preferably every day. He had explicitly told him, in the very presence of Father and Uncle Arthur, not to talk to Maester Luwin about it for the time being.

It wasn't like Jon would have said no anyway. He loved Gobbler. Gobbler was his best friend after Robb. Or maybe before Robb, but it was kind of stupid to have a raven as a best friend. It was probably more accurate to say that he and Gobbler were like partners. In the last few days, it was as if they understood each other better than anyone else, so much so that Jon even felt the raven's desire for freedom. He was delighted to get out of his cage and torn between the idea of staying in the colony and the idea of flying over the castle. Yes, they understood each other better than anyone else, for it was sometimes also his most intense desire. That very same desire that drove him to run away irrationally.

The desire to escape, to fly away and fly through the skies, like a bird would.

Or a dragon.

* * *

**THE LADY OF WINTERFELL**

The snows had fallen much less frequently in the last few weeks and the air had warmed substantially. The days seemed to have become longer and the people of the domain had noticed buds among the branches of the many trees of the fief. These reports correlated with the observations of Sir Vayon Poole, who had reported to her the blooming of a certain number of the winter roses in the glass gardens of the castle. For the common people, everything suggested that the winter that had been going on for almost three years now was about to give way to summer and that life would at last be able to resume its course.

In that sense, even though the northerners prayed to these strange and frightening tree and stone gods instead of the true ones, Lady Catelyn Stark realized that they were not so different from those in the south. They feared winter like the people of the south, though even more than any others in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Winter is coming, indicated the austere and intimidating words of her foster House… The North lived by the words of the House Stark more than she ever thought possible. But the North remembered, she had often heard in the mouths of her new subjects on many occasions. So Catelyn kept it in mind as well. They may no longer have a crown, but the Starks of Winterfell were still regarded as the Kings of Winter of the past.

Catelyn was not as fooled, however, as the little people, especially those in the North, whom she found simple and superstitious. The subtleties of the seasons did not appear to them any more than they interested them, especially since Catelyn had noticed that it could even snow during summer here in the North. But what she knew, contrary to most, as a Tully of Riverrun and a daughter of the Riverlands, was that this abrupt and unexpected warming of temperatures was not a sign of summer, or even spring, and could only be a sign of a false spring. For she had already been confronted with such a phenomenon and she remembered it as clearly as one remembers an event from the day before.

 _Like that spring… That false spring that took us so much._ That ominous spring that was still fresh in so many minds. Not warm enough to be considered summer, but not cold enough to be considered winter. A gloomy transition phase that had made hopes languish and then die in the fires of war. Some had called it the “tragic spring”, others ironically the “Harrenhal spring”. The outbreaks of light had come as fortuitously over the last few days as they had in the past. People had begun to celebrate the coming of summer, praying to the Seven for abundant and lush crops, for fortune and happiness in all things. _And they got none of that. All they found was ruin._ For it was in that year that the noble House Whent of Harrenhal, from which her mother came from, organised the greatest tournament that had ever been held before in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

The great tournament at Harrenhal. The sinister tournament at Harrenhal. The tournament that saw the smiles fade away. _A magnificent tournament_ , she remembered, _of unbelievable splendour_. All the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms had sent representatives or participants, all exalted, all happy! Oh, happy they were, but they were not for very long. For as the deceptive spring, which gave the illusion of its apparent warmth and concealed a dazzling return to an even harsher winter, the pomp and passion of the tournament had skilfully hidden the tension that was brewing… A tension that had turned to war. A war that had taken away her Brandon. _But which gave me Ned_ … she corrected herself.

She didn't know Ned at the time. She had never met anyone but Brandon Stark. Her handsome and strong Brandon, with whom she had only had two encounters, including their introduction, before she fell under his spell. She still remembered him and his manly beauty. That playful and unfiltered personality of his, which some would have described as vulgar, but through which Catelyn had felt a bubbling enthusiasm and joy for life. At the great tournament at Harrenhal, Catelyn had only had eyes for him. Not even Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, handsome as he had been, had diverted her attention from Brandon. It was also the first time Catelyn had experienced jealousy.

Catelyn still remembered her thin, oval face, her fleshy lips releasing a smile so devastating and seductive that Septa Mordane would have been outraged. Her smooth, fair skin, with its distinctive and elegant complexion, had betrayed her origins as a stony dornishwoman. But it was her eyes that had marked her more than anything else... Her purple and laughing eyes still haunted her. She had been the attraction of the first days of the tournament and the very muse of the first great ball, turning all the heads of men, young and old, whether they were lords, heirs, second sons, landed knights or hedge ones. She had been the subject of all the ladies and their retinues, her name passing from party to party. Ashara Dayne.

The reputation of Ashara Dayne had initially left her indifferent. She was indeed one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom, but Catelyn didn't think she was pretentious in considering herself a woman of great beauty, and other ladies could also compete and rival in this term, as it was the case with Cersei Lannister. To be jealous of Ashara Dayne's beauty would have been a petty reaction unbecoming of the manners that her lady mother, and then her lord father after her death, had instilled in her. Moreover, they were all outclassed by the absurd and uncategorized beauty of the young and wild Lyanna Stark.

But then Brandon had become interested in her and turned around her and suddenly Catelyn had become particularly aware of her own qualities but also of her own limitations. She had already heard about the experiences and whims of Brandon. He was a free and wild-minded young man, who loved parties and women and never ignored his desires and needs. This was the way men were made. But then Brandon's austere younger brother entered the equation and swept away all of her fears in one evening.

It was the first time Catelyn had ever seen Ned. That night, dancing with the lovely Ashara Dayne, who was then eager to lose herself in favour of the Stark second son. Their display of affection and their continuous absence over the next few days had been an endless source of gossip for everyone. The gossip that the Stark second son had disgraced the Dayne lady had run uninterrupted over the next few days.

How was that possible? After all, Eddard Stark was nothing like Brandon. He wasn't as tall, not as muscular, not as handsome, not as charismatic judging by what people said about him: he was silent, secretive and shy. Catelyn had laughed several times at the idea that the muse of Starfall would fall in love with the second son of the Starks. How could such a timid man have claimed the impenetrable fortress that was Lady Dayne's heart when men like her Brandon were so common during the tournament? But in the end, it had been for the best, for Ashara Dayne would no longer be there to interfere in the blossoming harmony of her upcoming marriage.

 _How ironic. If I had known_ , thought Catelyn, remembering how the confident young dornishwoman had lured her anxious suitor to the fringes of the ball, just as a cat would have caught a canary, ready to abuse it and eat it. This Ashara Dayne would have made only one bite of that poor Ned Stark, naive as he was to believe that a woman as courted as Ashara Dayne would fall in love with him. _No, I had no idea at the time. How could I?_

For it only took one day for things to get out of hand.

Along with a crown of winter roses, blue as the frost.

Catelyn remembered that there had been a before and an after and that the people she thought she knew were revealing parts of themselves that were still unsuspected. Darker parts, petty parts, miserable parts. And after so many years, Catelyn assumed she had nothing to envy them.

When Rhaegar Targaryen crowned Lyanna Stark in that cursed tournament, everything changed for the worse. Brandon, to whom she thought she was close, became distant and angry. He had experienced his sister's coronation as queen of love and beauty by the Crown Prince as an affront and a humiliation. Her father, the brave Hoster Tully, was even more determined and obstinate in his insistence that she should marry her Brandon as soon as possible. Her sister, her sweet and innocent Lysa, who changed overnight from a young girl full of life to a broken young woman.

Everything had become darker and the torments of the false spring were already beginning to appear. The summer air had been a lie, an illusion, while the golden, ephemeral shadow of the sun made one forget the harsh winds of winter nights. And that war had been declared.

Catelyn didn't remember that time well. Too many things had happened at the same time or in such a short period of time that she couldn't discern the order. Lyanna Stark had been abducted by Prince Rhaegar. Her Brandon had gone off like the wild, crazy boy he was, facing danger without even realizing it. He had died at the hands of King Aerys II, alongside Lord Rickard Stark who had come to plead his cause. “The monstrous Mad King.” she had heard many times before. How could Brandon have been so reckless? She hadn't even had time to mourn him since her father had engaged her to his younger brother.

That brother who had gone from being a distant second son to this inflexible and charismatic army general, Warden of the North and leader of the rebel army.

Catelyn may not have seen him right away. She had done her duty, unable to grieve properly. So Ned took her. He had not been mean, he had even been very respectful to her, but the wedding night she had fantasized so much and the dreams of a romantic wedding had died for good just as her new husband's lips were touching hers. There had not been a shadow of passion, not even a shadow of affection. Catelyn had thought about blaming her father for the sad marriage that condemned her to a life without love. But her fate had been more enviable to that of her sister, poor Lysa, defeated and desperate. Married shortly afterwards to Lord Jon Arryn, Lysa had not uttered a single word before leaving them without a farewell to the Eyrie.

Robb was born nine months later, at the first light of spring, safe within the walls of her childhood, at Riverrun. By that time, war was raging throughout the whole kingdom. In the Reach and the Stormlands, the most bitter clashes had seen the most crushing defeats of the rebel army and the forces of Robert Baratheon. But Ned had turned this succession of major defeats into a succession of brilliant victories, twice defeating the royal army, at Stoney Sept during the terrible Battle of the Bells and then at the Battle of the Trident.

 _My Ned was the architect of King Robert's victory_ , thought Catelyn proudly. If King Robert had the reputation of an excellent warrior and Lord Arryn that of an excellent administrator, Ned had asserted himself to become a strategist and an army general as unifying as he was cunning. With the exile of Lord Jon Connington following his humiliating defeat and the death of Prince Rhaegar, the rest of House Targaryen collapsed and with it its supporters. At the very end, two years after the first battles, the Targaryen dynasty disappeared and with it three hundred years of history.

Catelyn honestly thought that the happy days would be ahead of her now and that the bad memories would fade with time. She honestly thought so. But for her, spring had not come yet.

Coming to Winterfell, settling in her new fiefdom and her new country, integrating her new family, starting all over again... She had travelled the royal road with her retinue, full of hope, ready to show her little Robb the vast and wild kingdom of which he would one day be the absolute master.

But in the glow of those purple and mauve eyes that haunted her, Catelyn had discovered with horror that she had been cuckolded by a ghost even before her wedding, and that this same ghost had allowed itself to give a poisoned gift to her family.

“Jon Snow” as Ned called him. This little bastard wandered around the castle of the House Stark as if he were more than just a bastard! But to add insult to indecency, her lord husband allowed his bastard's odious uncle to literally colonize the castle walls as if it were his own. Arthur Dayne had no respect for her and he did nothing to hide it.

How could Ned have the indecency to call him Snow? He even pretended the child was from the North and would therefore be a Snow! This boy was born in Dorne and should have been called Sand like all the bastards that were born in this remote land abandoned by the decency of the Seven. _Why not a Stark while we were at it?_ It was then that she was finally taught. That one day he would be called that. A Stark. Jon Stark of Dragonstone.

She hated them both. The big one and the little one. Why didn't they stay south, on the shores of the Torrentine, or in the Red Mountains? To tell the truth, it didn't really matter where their sandy fiefdom was, as long as they went back there and stayed there forever. Their presence reminded her of her weaknesses. Their presence reminded her of her limits. Their presence evoked that image of Ned in love, dancing with Ashara Dayne. 

Ned never looked at her like that before. Even after Sansa was born. Even after their marriage took a more... engaging turn. She knew the late Lady of Starfall still occupied her husband's mind if not his heart, and the jealousy at the mere thought became unbearable. He raised this woman's bastard alongside their legitimate son, he trained him as he trained his heir, as if there was no difference between the heir of Winterfell and the bastard of Winterfell. He didn't even seem to see the seed of disaster. Hadn't he learned what happens when the bastards were given the same privileges as their rightful brothers and sisters? The kingdom had been the victim of many wars of usurpation throughout the century as a result of these practices. To make it worse, the idea that a bastard born of adultery could have prevailed over her own legitimate children regarding the grant of the island of Dragonstone was an affront.

The potential of this child frightened her, and the attention he received from Ned's bannermen as well as from the people of Winterfell was equally disturbing. Ser Martyn Cassel was incredibly caring for the child and she had seen Lord Howland Reed as much as Lord William Dustin standing by him as if he were a prodigal son. The boy had learned to read properly just after his third birthday. Maester Luwin redoubled his efforts to teach him history, arithmetic and even heraldry of the Seven Kingdoms. At the corners of the corridors, the castle servants, the guards, the visitors… All spoke of the child, often in a good way, praising his beautiful violet eyes, his dark Stark hair: a trait not even Robb or Sansa had inherited. _As if it wasn't already bad enough that he is the heir of Dragonstone, t_ _hey are all praising him as if he were the heir of Winterfell._

Catelyn was afraid at the mere thought that her children would be disinherited in favour of this bastard child, who already considered himself as Robb and Sansa's legitimate brother. She knew it wasn't credible, that Ned would never dare, that her father would never allow her husband to do such a thing, but sometimes, when she saw the child... she was afraid. Afraid that he would take everything from her own children, just as Ashara Dayne had taken Ned's heart without even trying and kept it for herself, even when she was dead.

A blast of particularly cold wind brought Catelyn to her senses and reminded her that despite the coming of this false spring, winter would still persist. Especially when one stood like her on the inner ramparts of the castle, watching the activities of the farmyard below. On the other side, beyond the vertiginous inner dry moat and the outer ramparts were stretching the great northern plains and the conurbation of the winter town, from which a path barely concealed by the layers of snow linked it to the southwestern gates of Winterfell.

The sun was quite high in the sky and the Lady of Winterfell remembered after a while that the lessons of Septa Mordane should be about to end. It was time to fetch Sansa before one of the castle servants made the mistake of giving her to Maester Luwin or Vayon Poole. While she enjoyed both men, and especially the former as an adviser, they regarded the bastard too kindly and allowed him to stay with Sansa far too long to her liking. Carrying a hand to her already heavy belly from almost seven months of pregnancy, Catelyn reassured herself that the little Stark growing inside her now would not grow up with the ostentatious presence of its bastard half-brother.

Then Catelyn went down the stairs from the ramparts, which were cut into the inner side of the wall, and began to walk towards the citadel and the keep, where the Sept, and therefore Sansa, were located. “Lady Stark”, she heard from time to time as she walked through the alleys of the castle and crossed the path of her subjects. She sometimes answered eloquently, taking news of them, as she did with the blacksmith of the castle, Harrol, whose two sons were playmates of her Robb. _And the bastard, to a lesser extent._

It was at this very moment that she saw him about twenty meters away, in a small alley at the corner of the inner wall of the citadel, which was mainly used for the passage of the horses of the castle guard. The rascal wandered once again through the castle as if it was his right to do as he wished. He was jumping and hopping around, in the footprints that stood here and there. Sir Vayon Poole was supposedly in charge of his surveillance lately but must have lost him. But from the boy's calm demeanour, he must have given him some time off on condition that he behaved well. _Well, good. The boy doesn't deserve the waste of the guard's time and resources._

But then the boy cast his eyes on her.

His odiously indigo eyes.

Silence reigned for a few seconds before Catelyn decided to continue and turned away from the child. She didn't want to deal with him any more than necessary and preferred to have him in her sight as little as possible. To bear his presence in the afternoon during the free quarters of her children was already enough.

But against all odds, the boy did something he had never done before.

“Mother, wait!”

Then he threw himself on her. And hugged her, eyes closed and face wrinkled in panic.

Catelyn had only one reflex.

Only one.

The sound of a violent slap echoed through the courtyard.

The boy, looking haggard, brought his hand to his cheek, which was reddened on the impact. Tears arose in his eyes, already fogged with confusion, but they brought Catelyn nothing but relief and personal satisfaction. It was time for that boy to learn his place and to stick to it.

“Don't touch me, little bastard!” she thundered in a scornful and stern tone. “I am not your mother!”

Beginning a retreating movement, trembling, the little bastard began to flee without uttering a single word. He had disappeared at the bend of the alley in less than five seconds. Let him stay in his corner and think twice from now on before daring to touch or approach her or her children again.

Satisfied, Catelyn turned back to the dungeon and went on her way. Spring hadn't come yet, but it looked like it was coming. But one thing was certain: Ashara Dayne would not be more her false spring than she had been her winter.

Over the next few days, Vayon Poole reported to her that the bastard had fallen ill and was suffering from very high fevers and night delusions. “He is subject to terrible nightmares.”

Supposedly, three dragons, a black one, a red one and a silver one, chased him and clutched him until he choked.

* * *

_Arthur,_

_The following message is encrypted using white code. I know it's a tricky one, but I can't trust your eagle to carry such a valuable piece of information._

_Willem Darry is an incredibly cautious man. He has blurred all the tracks in his path four times. Once in Pentos, by selling his ship and freeing his most unreliable men from service. He joined Myr by land with a party of thirty people and then his trail disappeared._

_We tracked him back to Lys. It seems that he stopped there with an even smaller group. I don't know what happened, deaths or desertions, or anything else. However, the description of the children in his company fits. And above all, a young woman of Valyrian origin accompanies them, and I'm willing to bet that she is Lady Laena. The descriptions match._

_Gerold believes that Darry took them to Volantis and is seeking military support from the triarchs. No matter how hard I try to reason with him, we both know the legendary stubbornness of our lord commander. He didn't know Darry well, but I do. I know he would never have taken them to that viper's nest of Volantis. The Usurper would have found them there soon enough._

_If Lady Laena is with them, it's even clearer to me. I'm sure they've been hiding in Braavos. I just hope it's not too late. We're obviously not the first on the trail. Others have investigated the same place before us and asked similar questions._

_Time is against us._

_Protect the prince._

_Oswell_

_***_

_Allyrion,_

_We have new goals. I know our mother will try to dissuade you from doing anything, but she's always been far too careful._

_Oswell thinks they've been outrun, and I have my suspicions about who. See if you can find out what the last movements of the Martells were and let me know. Especially Prince Oberyn. I'd honestly prefer that it was him and not that Varys snake._

_I also have a favour to ask of you. I'd like you to charter a ship for Myr and transport someone for me to White Harbour. I need support at Winterfell to educate the prince. Have your men ask for Elina Paenymion at the old harbor inn. She'll be there. She's a trustworthy person._

_Be well, brother._

_***_

_Ser Arthur,_

_His panic attacks and night terrors are symptoms. Do not let Maester Luwin or anyone else prescribe milk of the poppy or anything else, even if he is in pain. Whether they are green dreams or not, it is best to let them run their course. Channelling them with unhealthy substances could cause irreversible damage. Make sure Maester Luwin understands that._

_I cannot tell you why he has these crises but it is in no way the fault of the spiritual exercises he practices with his raven or alone. Something in particular must have triggered them. Something traumatic or distressing. Maybe he got into a fight with someone? One of the children in the castle? You'll have to discuss it with him. If that's the cause, talking about it will at least partially resolve his troubles._

_But whatever happens, he must continue his exercises. Being gifted with such abilities comes with a burden. I think his father's family members are suffering from their gifts, rather than being able to control them._ _His awakening will cause some pain, but it will turn out to be for the best._

_Howland_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour, everyone!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope that there are not too many translation errors in the text. I have once again done my best to make this text readable, despite its large size.
> 
> Anyway, that was the first part of Jon's life in the North. You get to know his local supports and the angle he tends to go to, in terms of personality. He's a very open, happy, very protected little boy. He didn't even know that he was officially a bastard, let alone that he is in fact of royal and legitimate blood. He is somehow rather overprotected, but it is the atmosphere and setting of Winterfell that wants that. For the time being, at least. The end of the chapter on the one hand and the future arrival of contradictory elements on the other will shake up his little world.
> 
> However, I want to show that Jon does not develop alone, unlike in books. Well, he is not that alone in the books, but he very quickly abandons his feelings of belonging to the House Stark and becomes very, if not too much, aware of his condition as a bastard. This pushes him to join the night watch over very visceral feelings of perdition.
> 
> My Jon will be an Ægon to the core. Or at least, that's what men like Ser Arthur Dayne or Ned Stark's friends and banners are planning for him to be. That is why some of them are training him (Ser Arthur, Ser Martyn) or are willing to do so (Lord Howland, etc.) early on so that he'll fit to the squares when the time have come. He doesn't know who he is, but he will be ready for it.
> 
> By the end of the chapter, it was late 289 and Catelyn was about to give birth to Arya Stark. So Jon is 6, Dany 5, and Rhaenys 9. The next chapter will focus on Princess Daenerys.
> 
> Feel free to leave me comments, whether you liked the chapter or not, because nothing will please me more than to know your opinions about it. Any remarks on mistakes are welcome. I am rather motivated to perfect the accuracy of my english in this chapter.
> 
> Until next time,  
>  Be well.
> 
> Etsukazu


	3. A Princess in the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction to the Targaryen supporters : Braavos, Ser Willem Darry, Lady Laena Velaryon of High Tide.

**THE SILVER PRINCESS**

**290**

Daenerys leaned on the high stone ledge of the bridge and looked down at the fishing boat passing underneath. It was quite amusing to see the men on the boat struggling to keep the seagulls from pilfering fish. Their sometimes playful and sometimes nervous chirping sounded in the air and followed each other in a frantic rhythm, according to their moods. They constituted together a real concert of sounds while a symphony of peeps, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, all full of life, was transmitted along the canals. Tens, hundreds of little white dots could be seen in all directions and reverberated on the blue water as well as they composed the distant light of the city and the cerulean sky. Here, as Daenerys stood on this bridge over the sea, its panoramic view without any real transition between the ocean and the equally immaculate sky often gave her this dizzying impression of immensity.

In the distance, the immense Titan of Braavos seemed as if it were slashing the skies with its broken sword. Facing northwest and with its back to the city, it obstructed many days the setting sun and split it in two in a breath-taking view. But that morning, the mighty warrior sparkled under the zenith. Mighty and celestial Hoplite, all bronze and silver covered, guarantor of freedom and peace. He who saw the ships in the distance and guided them with his flames during the night, like a lighthouse; he who guarded the entrance to the great lagoon and stopped the invaders coming from the sea, like a fortress. It was the same titan who had made the Valyrian Freehold, the nation of her dragonriders ancestors, renounce its ardent desire to punish the city of the hundred isles for its audacity. Or was it what Ser Willem had said when he told her tales of the glory of the greatest of the Free Cities of the Narrow Sea: their host city, Braavos.

The city was huge. It had been told that more than at least one million people lived on its western urban islets and that the same number lived on the other side, beyond the Grand Canal. Daenerys couldn't even imagine the size of that number, yet she had learned to count to one hundred when she was only two years old. Willem had told her that this was normal, that no one unless one could see it with its eyes would be able to visualize a group of a million people.

However, from the western bridge of the Canal of Heroes, the little Targaryen could already get a good view of the vastness of Braavos. If it wasn't for its Titan, the cove itself was impressive, between the huge isle of the Arsenal of Braavos, which could be seen at the feet of the Titan, and the smaller island that housed the Chequy Port, the main gateway to the city. Ser Willem used to say that this was the way they arrived when she was very young. The fishermen's boats that sailed down the Canal of Heroes looked so small compared to the monsters of wood, oars and canvas that guarded the entrance to the lagoon. They were huge, and their blue sails featuring the hoplitic helmet of the Titan were magnificent.

Muña had called them “Quinqueremes of Braavos”. They were warships made up of crews of three hundred oarsmen who manoeuvred five rows of oars one on top of the other and about fifty sailors who looked after the masts and their large sails, not counting the two hundred infantrymen on the upper deck, ready to fight. Muña used to say that Braavos was the only Free City in the world that knew how to produce ships that combined both power and speed, and against which even the sturdy triremes of the House Velaryon, from which she came, could not hope to compete. Ser Willem loved them and spent all his time talking about them. Even seen from here, at least a mile away from the nearest large warships, they seemed invincible to Daenerys. It was incredible to think that Braavos had a hundred of these mastodons in addition to the thousand triremes of the Great Fleet of Braavos.

 _But wood and canvas are no match for dragons_ , she recalled. That was what Viserys always told her, that it didn't matter how big a ship was or how many soldiers were on it, because the mighty dragons of her family would always destroy them without much harm. Anyway, that was what her older brother had told her, and he knew a lot about the dragons of their family.

“Dany?”

Daenerys came out of her thoughts and immediately turned her head to her right as soon as she heard her aunt's soft and familiar voice. Her aunt was a few meters away from her on the flagstones that marked the demarcation between the urban islet and the first bridge of the Canal of Heroes, and she watched her with that eternally benevolent and maternal gaze. For she was none other than Aunt Laena, or Lady Laena Velaryon, Lady of Driftmark and High Tide, as she had been known in the Seven Kingdoms long ago. But to Dany, she was just Muña.

Daenerys let her footsteps guide her and she rushed into the arms of the young woman, who hastened to receive her in small, tender laughter. Muña affectionately covered her forehead with kisses and gratified her head with tender caresses and scratches. Daenerys buried her face without waiting in her aunt's turquoise dress, taking advantage of her delicate and reassuring perfume, which evoked the tulips of their garden, and the softness of her breasts, which formed like a soft cushion against which to rub herself was at that moment the greatest of luxuries. And Muña to respond to her hugs by hugging her just as affectionately. Daenerys loved the tenderness of her aunt.

“It's time to go, sweetheart.” pronounced her aunt in her usual sweet and kind tone. “Our gondola won't wait for us, nor the market, if we are late.”

Out of a desire to obey her aunt, Daenerys broke her embrace and let her get up. Aunt Laena dusted off the lower parts of her dress for the next few seconds and then grabbed the wicker basket on the side, the same one they would use to bring their future groceries home. Then, turning back to her, she took her by the hand and they both left, taking a staircase that was not far between the few stone buildings that stood on the edge of the island. The streets were silent and the neighbourhood seemed completely deserted, but Daenerys remembered what Aunt Laena and Willem often said about the people of Braavos. The men went fishing at dawn and the women went to market, so the residential areas were relatively quiet in the mornings, especially the north-western area where their house was located, as it was as far away from Purple Harbour in the north as it was from the Ragman’s Harbour in the southwest.

Having passed through the small central part of their isle, Aunt Laena made them take a second small staircase that went down again and they both arrived at the edge of a small canal in the shade of two lines of houses. Further to the left, Daenerys could see the large Canal of Heroes.

“Rytsas, Ābrāzma Velārio.” suddenly heard Dany.

It was a man's voice. Turning away from the intriguing view of the Canal of Heroes, she focused on what was in front of her. A gentleman stood there in balance, one foot on the canal dock and another on what the girl recognized to be a gondola of Braavos. It was a small boat, colourful but low. Painted red and black with waves on it, it looked as if mere ripples could overturn the strange little boat. However, this was not the case, and it was the favourite means of transport of the Braavosi within the city.

“Rytsas, Syrello.” Aunt Laena kindly replied. “Skorkydoso glaesā?”

“Syrī glaesan, my lady. Syrello was waiting for you.” he answered with a big smile. “I suppose she's the little lady you and Master Darry were talking about?”

“It is her indeed.” continued Aunt Laena before turning to her. “Sweetheart, this is Syrello Orlas. He's our gondolier and protector when we go to the market.”

Daenerys then looked at the man, the so-called Syrello, who watched her with a smile on his face. He was a rather tall man, whose matt complexion evoked without mystery that of the inhabitants of Essos. His short, brown hair was curly and tended to crepe on its top, while his dark eyes were large and laughing. His accent had been particularly equivocal, but more than that, it was the fact that he was speaking in the common tongue that had caught her attention. Few people in Braavos spoke the common tongue, and the only common words one was likely to hear here would fit more into a discussion between two sailors who spoke the trade tongue. The fact remained that despite the amusing way he rolled his R and pronounced various other letters, the man spoke the common tongue very well. _And he looks friendly_ , she thought innocently. At least he seemed to get along well with Muña. And anyone who got along with her must have been nice.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir Orlas.” she said before curtseying to the man. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

Syrello looked at her for a few seconds and then laughed wholeheartedly. Daenerys was offended for a moment by his reaction before the man bowed respectfully. However, he still seemed to be amused for some reason.

“You are well-mannered, but there's no need to bow to a servant like that, my princess. This humble man is only Syrello of Braavos.” he said to her before giving her a small wink. “Valar dohaerys.”

Daenerys had started to blush as soon as the man addressed her using her title before feeling a little silly. Viserys would have harshly reminded her that she was not to accord respect to commoners and indigents because she was a royal princess of the Seven Kingdoms, but she did not like to be disrespectful or rude. Muña was always cordial and warm with everyone. Moreover, Syrello seemed to be a very nice person.

Syrello then grabbed a long paddle and fixed it to the back of the gondola and turned towards them.

“Syrello is at your service, my ladies. Get in whenever you want.”

“Let's go…?” suggested her aunt, as if she was waiting for her assent, which she gave very naturally in a vigorous nod of acquiescence.

It would be the first time Daenerys would get on a gondola and she was very excited.

Muña got on the gondola first and came to sit on the two-seat bench in the middle of the boat. Turning to her and holding out her hand, she helped her to climb up as well. The help was welcome, as Daenerys was afraid that she might stumble on the wood and fall into the water. That would certainly ruin the morning that had started so well.

Confidently grasping her aunt's hand, the little Targaryen stepped forward and climbed onto the little ship. She came without delay to nestle against the Velaryon, who gave her a smile.

“Are you comfortable?” asked Syrello then. He was standing on the rear of the boat, although Dany wondered how he managed to keep his balance on such an unstable surface. “Well, in that case, here we go!”

The man then plunged his strange paddle into the water while using the bracket that held it in place to manipulate it, and the boat began to move. In a few seconds the boat was moving forward, and they were gone. The feeling of moving over the water was an incredible discovery, and all the more fascinating as the gondola pulled itself out of the small canal and into the huge Canal of Heroes. The sun immediately lit up the gondola from all sides and the sparkling water appeared to her as a sea of diamonds and sapphires.

Daenerys immediately leaned over the ledge to fix her reflection on the large liquid mirror, but her own image escaped her as quickly as the silhouettes of the algae growing on the canal bottom appeared to her. Daenerys even believed she saw a small school of fish. All around, the activities of the people of Braavos were swarming. Here and there, many more gondolas were on the Canal of Heroes, leaving or joining it through the many small canals on the side. On the docks, people were fishing with rods. Seagulls floated on the water, especially in the middle of the river, and sometimes they would fly away when a fishing boat or a gondola got too close to them.

Syrello had started singing a traditional song in braavosi as soon as they had crossed the first bridge of the Canal of Heroes, the very one on which she had stood to watch the cove just before. The bridges overlooking the canal linked the northern island of the city to the central one, and the game of perspectives imposed by the distance made them overlap each other like the steps of a staircase. Daenerys had the feeling of being tiny at this sight and soon felt the vertigo seizing her.

Her aunt's hands were immediately behind her back and kept her from wobbling, making her fully aware that in her excitement to observe all around her the shores of the city, she had stood up on the back of her seat and was clearly holding her balance.

“Be careful, sweetheart, otherwise you'll fall in the water.” Muña said, before helping her to get back on her seat properly.

Daenerys decided it was wiser to listen to her aunt and restrained her excitement as best she could. She sat obediently in her seat with her hands on her laps. She realized, however, that it was now more interesting to observe Muña's expressions. She hardly moved, and apart from the modest caresses she gave her from time to time by running her fingers through her hair, she kept looking straight ahead.

Muña was so beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman Daenerys knew and she was sure she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She received her compliments with amusement every time, telling her that there were many beautiful women in this world, but Daenerys was really sure of it and Viserys agreed with her. Viserys had told her that the House Velaryon was the sister house of the House Targaryen. Lady Laena of House Velaryon looked like a lady of House Targaryen. She had long, beautiful silver hair, just like her and her brother, which she always wore very elegantly; a long necklace of blue pearls ran down to her head and gathered them together in a slight clasp at the back of her neck. From there they flowed like a cascade of gold and silver over her slender shoulders and her back, her curls forming as many small glittering waves. Her eyes were a bright cerulean blue, and, as one would expect from the blue eyes of the Velaryons, they revealed at dawn and dusk a stream of colours ranging from pink to purple.

Her aunt's features were just as fine as her own and those of Viserys: she had the same fine, straight nose and high cheekbones that gave their faces an elegant, long, heart-shaped form. Some Velaryon had this particular feature, a common one amongst the Targaryen. Her skin was just as fair as theirs; although the Velaryon's skin tanned slightly in the sun, which was not the case with her and Viserys.

Noticing her gaze, Aunt Laena smiled at her and came over to give her a mother-like hug. There was a time when she had thought Laena was. After all, they were so much alike and Laena was always looking after her and giving her so much love. It was her aunt who educated her and taught her to speak High Valyrian, her native language. Ser Willem even said that she was the one who breastfed her when she was little and was the first person to carry her in her arms. She had therefore very early and naturally started to call her Muña. And yet Daenerys had come to understand that Laena Velaryon was not her mother; that she was the daughter of the late Queen Rhaella Targaryen, a lady she had never known, who had died giving birth to her.

Thinking of the fact that she had been the primary cause of her mother's death often made Daenerys melancholic, this sadness compounded by the disappointment of learning that the woman she had always thought was her mother was not. But her aunt had told her not to be sad or disappointed. “ _Rhaella loved you with all her heart even before you were brought into the world. And I've never seen her as happy as when you were born._ ” she told her the night she understood. “ _And even if I'm not your mother, I'll always be Muña._ ”

In the end, Aunt Laena was right. Nothing had changed.

“Dany, look!” suddenly pronounced the latter, pointing to the shore on their right.

Daenerys turned her head to her right and looked at the south shore of the canal, or had she thought so, for what she saw looked nothing like a shore. The Canal of Heroes was widening towards the south and Daenerys remembered some of Willem's lessons that it had an end and was flowing into the Long Canal. One last bridge stood in the distance in front of them, certainly the one that had made her think that they were still in the Canal of Heroes, however, Daenerys realized that it did not connect to the south of Braavos but to an island; or to be more precise, a set of small islands closely connected and on which huge structures had been built.

The largest of them was so high that Daenerys became dizzy just by looking at the top of it. It was a huge and wide building, built in white marble and decorated with a silver relief that shone in the sunlight. The central base of the building was wide and was like a rectangular ziggurat in shape, around which four circular buildings, made of the same materials, were merged. The ensemble supported a gigantic silver dome covered with gold stained glass windows, on which the little Targaryen recognized the different phases of the moon, depicted in cyclical fashion and running around the dome.

Daenerys observed what she concluded without difficulty to be the great door of the palace. For if the immense gates of a colour as pure as that of the diamond were not a sufficient sign, two colossal statues of women who evoked to her the Maiden of the Faith of the Seven stood on either side of the paved path leading to the door. Presumably dressed in magnificent white painted gowns and both haloed with jade stone crowns carved to evoke the laurel, they held a golden symbol in the shape of a crescent moon that must have been five times the size of the gondola on which she, Aunt Laena and Syrello sailed.

It took no more than that for the little Targaryen to marvel, dumb and speechless in fascination. The whole thing was a jewel that shone like the moon and the sun.

“Magnificent, isn't it?” she heard in her amazement.

Muña leaned over and whispered in her ear while hugging her. She nodded distractedly, her gaze wandering from the statues to the silver dome.

“It's the Temple of the Moonsingers.” her aunt continued, sticking her cheek to hers and staring at the incredible building just as she did. “It reminds me of you every time we pass by. It is all pure and silvery, just like you.”

Daenerys took her aunt's compliment for granted and loosened herself in her silky embrace while continuing to observe the great temple.

“Muña, why is this temple so big?”

“This is a long story, little princess.” Syrello answered unexpectedly. He had stopped singing and humbly observed the structure of marble and silver. “Moonsingers are the spiritual heart of Braavos. A long time ago, the inhabitants of Braavos were poor slaves fleeing from the dragon lords of Valyria, your ancestors. The priestesses of the moon were those who guided the inhabitants of Braavos after great visions, here in the fog, far away and safe from the dragons. They were two, very beautiful and came from far away. The first was called Sha'an-ak'ma and came from Bayasabhad, the city of snakes. The second was called Hyrkan and came from Shamyriana, the city of maidens.”

Daenerys looked at him for a few moments before concentrating on the temple and the statues of the two priestesses, for she had guessed that it was these two that Syrello was talking about. They had strange names and came from places with equally strange names. And yet, the little Targaryen could not prevent her interest from awakening. Had these priestesses seen dragons that flew in the sky just as she did when she slept? For the three dragons - a red one, a white one, and a silver one - constantly harassed her, and Viserys had told her that the Targaryen of their family were gifted with prophetic dreams and magic. Daenerys didn't think Viserys was lying; after all, he knew so many things.

“Where are Shamyrania and Baya…”

“Bayasabhad, the city of snakes, and Shamyriana, the city of maidens, my princess.” Syrello replied before making a wide movement with his paddle. The gondola then moved in an arc as they rounded the islet and swept between it and a neighboring one. “They are far to the east, beyond the great forest of Qohor, even beyond the great Dothrak Sea, in the mountains that divide the world into two, which are called the Bones. When Sha'an'ak-ma and Hyrkan came to mingle with the ancestors of Braavos to save them, they brought faith in the moon.”

“But why the moon?”

“Cult of the moon was the ancestral cult of Hyrkoon, before Jogos Nhai, a terrible and powerful nomadic people, destroyed it. Bayasabhad and Shamyriana are the remnants of Hyrkoon.”

“But why the moon and not the sun?” Daenerys repeated insistently. “And what is Hyrkoon, and why did the Jogos Nhai destroy it?”

“A little princess asks a lot of questions.” Syrello said while amused. “And Syrello does not know everything. He is after all only Syrello of Braavos.”

“A princess doesn't ask so many questions to her protector, Dany.” Muña then intervened, although Daenerys recognized the burst of amusement in her voice. “Let Syrello sail.”

Daenerys nearly pouted at her aunt's argument but complied. She would later ask Willem the question. Ser Willem knew everything about everything and never failed to answer her, and much more, since he told her a thousand stories every time she had free time and listened to him.

So they continued to trace their channel at the confluence of the thousand furrows of water of the city. They passed in front of what Muña declared to be the Temple of the Lord of Light, a red god made of fire and life. The building itself seemed to shine with intense fire; it was smaller than the Temple of the Moonsingers, but it rivalled it in stature. Its high and richly relief-like facades of flames and hearts numbed with fire were set with gold and rubies. It was the immense braziers located in large bowls around the temple and on its roof that had first attracted her attention. The Lord of Light seemed to be a terrifying god, but Daenerys was sure that the dragon fire was even more impressive.

Just beyond this temple of fire was the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea, erected to the glory of the Seven. The sept competed with its neighbours in its almost outrageous splendour. Ser Willem had already told her of the glittering Great Sept of Baelor of King's Landing and even of the thousands-year-old Starry Sept of Oldtown; the faith of the Seven and its zealots spared no fortune to the glory of the Seven Deities, and the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea of Braavos was not to be outdone. Its walls were of white marble and sparkling granite. Bright by day like the stars at night, patterns with the effigies of the Father, the Mother and the Maiden were engraved and set in stone, evoking the glorious history of the Andals and their gods. “ _When Ser Willem is feeling better, we will visit it with Viserys.”_ Muña had told her. After all, the Faith of the Seven was the faith of their kingdom. Aegon the Conqueror, the founder of their royal line, had been crowned in a sept.

Bypassing the islet of the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea, Syrello had then led them south, leaving the group of islets she had come to know as the Isle of the Gods. Syrello had never mentioned the last island, but Daenerys had seen it in the distance, and its strange temple. After all, the latter seemed almost out of place, overhanging on a hill and impersonal at best. There were no windows like the temple of the Lord of Light or even stained glass windows like the Moonsingers one. It was an austere and grey building, rather cubic in appearance and with a roof covered with jet black tiles which looked oily.

Its sight had provoked like an unconscious fear in her, a hint of dread that had grown like a breath of wind coming out of a haunted house in the middle of a dark night, so much so that she had huddled up against her aunt and had not left her side since then.

She had then watched the tall statues of the Sealords of Braavos stringing almost tirelessly along the eastern shore of the city, and then the dizzying peaks of the Palace of Truth, which had a dazzling forest-green roof harmoniously matching the island on which it had been founded.

And it was then that Daenerys first realized it: the Long Canal was aptly named.

***

If the north of the Braavos lagoon was teeming with activity due to the presence of the Purple Harbour covering the north side of the city and the Ragman's Harbour covering the western one, Daenerys realized that the southern part of the immense city was not to be outdone. This was the district of the Silty Town, one of the most densely populated residential areas in Braavos. According to Syrello, it was also the location of the famous fishmarket, the place for which she and Muña had decided to move so far away from home.

Here, a lingering fragrance of fish saturated the air, blending with the already powerful smell of salt and the scent of the sea. If the seagulls were already numerous at the entrance of the canal of Heroes, the sky now seemed to be made up of so many of them. At certain times, it seemed as if it was difficult to hear each other, as they shouted together, straying in harassment along the stalls, chased away by the merchants as much as they could, while they tried in successive waves to steal from the vats, the stores, and even from the stalls the precious products thus presented to whoever wanted to buy them.

The aisles were filled with so many people that it was almost impossible to walk in a straight line and see what was in front of them. Aunt Laena held her firmly by the hand and they roamed as best they could through the thick crowd, tide of colour and forest of bodies. One could have said that the whole city was there; thousands of people coming from all over Braavos, even from the four corners of the world if what Syrello had told her was true. And Daenerys readily believed it: here she observed all kinds of people. There were white people, brown people, even people with black skin, which seemed almost supernatural - even though Ser Willem had told her that it was the colour of the inhabitants of the Summer Islands, even people with yellowish, mottled skin! Of those, even Syrello had never seen any.

On one side, a succession of imposing workbenches and plans delimited the space for Ibbenese products. The eponymous salesmen were probably the strangest of all among this crowd of strange people that Daenerys had the opportunity to see: they were small, stocky, hairy. They had particularly protruding, almost coarse features and looked like no other man; their skin was naturally livid and showed dark blue veins. Their accents in the trade tongue or in Braavosi were particularly marked and systematically supported by a rocky tone of their own.

“Ibbenese whale meat! Exceptional price! Fifty irons a pound! Ten irons an ounce!” she understood from one of them, overhanging on one of the workbenches. His Ibbenese accent was pronounced, but his words in the trade tongue remained perceptible.

The advantage of being a native speaker of the High Valyrian allowed Daenerys to understand more or less well its many derivatives. The trade tongue, for its part, was a modular aggregate of common tongue and Valyrian; in this sense, it was understandable to all and was used for trade and commerce in all the trading posts on the coasts, from Lannisport in the Seven Kingdoms to the city of Qarth, far in the East, within the Jade Gates.

“An iron the fish! Five the squid! Specialty of Tyrosh!” exclaimed another man further on in braavosi, but his marked way of accentuating his O betrayed a tyroshi origin.

On the other side, numerous market stalls and salt filled vats displayed strange deformed and elongated creatures with tentacles and bulging eyes. Some were hanging, hung prominently by hooks. Most of the traders wore beards and hair decorated with knots and dyed in bright colours, often bright blue or green, but also red, orange, yellow and even pink. Muña had told her that it was the tradition of the people of Tyrosh to dye themselves with such bright colours, so Daenerys deduced that they came from there.

The atmosphere seemed festive; almost as if one could feel the excitement in the air. The bursts of voices whirling in the wind and the regular hubbub of the seagulls often betrayed laughter and other joyful exclamations. For many reasons, the Braavos fishmarket was a local attraction, especially during the regular gathering of the confederation of fishermen of the Narrow Sea and Ibben, the tenth sun of each moon.

Visitors would turn around as they walked along the stalls. Many stopped, making traffic all the slower. But at no time did Daenerys feel frustrated, and judging by the serene expression of her aunt, neither did she.

Something then caught Dany's attention, beyond the piled up groups of customers on one of the Tyrosh's labelled stalls. The same squids in smaller sizes were displayed there, with their tentacles amputated and their bodies skewered. It wasn't the first time she had seen them since they had arrived on the market and her curiosity was beginning to grow. Especially when she saw some of the children present with their elders consuming the mets without reservation.

“Hey, kid, you want some?”

One of the salesmen, a tall, dull-skinned Tyroshi with turquoise blue hair, had called her like hundreds of merchants did with the customers here. His engaging gaze and his complicit raised eyebrows received only silence from her. Shy and unprepared, Daenerys did not know how to react... Especially since it was Muña who had the precious iron coins.

“Dany?”

Intrigued by her sudden stop, her aunt had turned around. Sharing a fleeting glance with the man on the other side of the stall, and then judging the skewered squid with an analytical eye, she emitted a small laugh.

“I'll take three, my good sir.” announced the Velaryon to the merchant.

Muña gave her a little wink, under which Daenerys could only feel herself blush. After all, she hadn't dared to ask her aunt to get her the intriguing dish, afraid of showing a whim that didn't suit her princely status at all. And despite this, Aunt Laena had understood in a second. The merchant hastened to exchange his three seafood skewers for his meager due. The Velaryon grabbed one of them and handed it to her without delay, and turned to Syrello, who had followed them obediently since their arrival on the scene. The surprise was quite clear in his eyes when her aunt offered him a skewer, and he even hesitated to say anything in view of the nervous and indecisive movement of his mouth.

“Please, Syrello.” pronounced Muña softly with a charming smile. “For your good service and friendship.”

“Oh, in that case, thank you, Lady Velaryon.” he replied after a small laugh. He seemed touched by Muña's attention. After all, Muña was so kind.

Then they set off again at their own pace, taking great care to enjoy their timely snack.

“So, do you like it?” Laena asked at the corner of a less busy alleyway where they could talk and hear each other.

The look in the eyes of the Lady of Driftmark was rather equivocal, judging by her amused glow. The latter, just like Syrello behind them, had obviously already finished her skewer. Daenerys tried as hard as she could to not show a spectacle too unworthy of her. In due course, under better circumstances, she would neither have touched the food with her hands because of the silverware provided, nor displayed her mouth smeared with sauce. How could her aunt have eaten her share so quickly and cleanly? As if to answer her question unconsciously, her aunt came to wipe off her face from the leftovers with a handkerchief as she finished her present mouthful.

“It's really good, Muña.” she answered with a big smile.

“That's perfect.” she replied with a big smile. “Go on then, my dear. I won't bother you anymore.”

Not that her aunt was bothering her. The idea was even really weird. As if to show it, she was the one to go on.

“Where are we going now, Muña?”

After all, they had already seen many things, and her aunt's wicker basket already had many fish hidden under the thin linen cloth that covered them. At her question, the Velaryon began to chuckle.

“To the White Knife salmons caterer, of course.” she exclaimed in a tone full of humour but also overflowing with tenderness. “If we don't take any, it's our dear Viserys who will be unhappy.”

To this, Dany replied with the same chuckle. Now she understood. She understood why Muña was going to the market personally when it was normally the job of their servants. Who else but her to look after her elder brother's special tastes so carefully?

Even though Viserys was not the quietest of the Targaryen as far as the expression of his princely desires and needs were concerned. At least, Daenerys would be proud to bring the ingredients of his favourite dish back to her brother on her own.

“Finish your skewer, sweetheart, and let's go home.”

Knowing what awaited her each time they returned from their stroll, the little princess was eager to obey.

***

There was definitely one thing Daenerys loved about Braavos. Something that could make her lose her grace and dignity as a princess, as Viserys often said - even if he had proved that he was no better than her in that respect; something that, as Muña said, would always make Dany her little “sugar flea that hops around”. And only the Fourteen of Valyria really knew how much Dany didn't like it when her aunt announced it to anyone who would listen. She was not a flea but a dragon! And yet Muña continued to tease her every time.

It wasn't for lack of trying to be patient, but somehow waiting was also part of the fun. And like every day, she was actually hopping around like a flea in the hope that her aunt would hurry back, this time on the dock waiting for Laena to get off their red and black gondola and set foot on land.

“Muña, hurry! Or else Viserys will eat everything!”

For Viserys had no manners when it came to the cake!

The "cake", that's what she liked more than anything else.

It all started with a fleeting and no-hassle impulse from Willem, who had baked a lemon cake for himself when they returned from a long walk. But the curious looks in her and Viserys' eyes had convinced the old man to divide it into several pieces so that they could all taste it. This first experience had proved to be a delight and it was Muña who had made the next one, which was even better.

Since then, the afternoon lemon cake had become a kind of ritual that Dany didn't want to miss for any reason. Especially with her greedy brother!

“Muña!” she repeated, jumping up and down.

“Yes, yes, wait a minute, you naughty girl.” replied the Velaryon, laughing, before turning to their gondolier and pointing at their wicker basket filled to the brim with the good fish they had bought. “Syrello, would you help me, please?”

The man did not make any prayers and held out the heavy basket after having lifted it. Her aunt took it in a small effort before moving away from the water's edge.

“You will excuse me, my dear sir, but we are going ahead.” she said to the man, but her gaze was turned to her jumping figure.

“Do so, my lady.” replied Syrello with a laugh. “Syrello must tie the gondola anyway. We'll see each other later.”

And then they were gone. The sun was already fading in the sky and red glows were seen on the crowns of the few clouds crossing the blue sky of Braavos, announcing the end of the afternoon.

Laena's voice and warnings were the only reason why Daenerys stopped running. It was important to not have her aunt scold her now, otherwise the day would be ruined and she wouldn't get what she wanted. But the sight of the many children her age roaming around the neighbourhood playing tag didn't help her to behave herself, even if reason overcame everything else. Eventually, however, they both reached their destination, and reason ceased to prevail.

“Dany!” cried her aunt, but too late as she had rushed off.

Because the house was in sight, up the street. Its roof was blue tiles and its stone walls were beige and brown, like most of the buildings and townhouses on their block. In front of it was a beautiful garden, its privacy protected from the indiscreet eyes of passers-by by a low wall where ivy was king and above which thick bushes sat. The large lemon tree was always in the same place, its foliage covered with the precious and delicious yellow fruits that she loved so much.

Oh, she was impatient. She couldn't wait. Rushing into the garden through the wide-open gate, Daenerys ignored the surprise reactions of the servants and guards present and quickly moved towards the red door. "Young mistress. " the guards on either side of the entrance greeted her. Muña was not far behind. Remembering her manners, Daenerys chose to wait for her rather than enter at once like a savage.

“Dany, really…!” she blew as she joined her. “The cake won't fly away, you know?”

She did not add anything more, however, before passing her. One of the two men in front of the door hastened to open it to let them through, and in a few seconds they found their way to the kitchens. There they found Ser Willem and her brother, already seated at the table. As soon as he saw them the first one rose to his feet, bowing respectfully and especially giving her a humble curtsy.

Ser Willem was an old man of feverish standing, making his movement almost hesitant, in spite of his tall and large stature. Daenerys had always known him like this; Viserys said he was even older than their grandfather King Jaehaerys, which she found hard to believe since grandfather had died long before they were born. Yet, looking at his aging face with its pale parchment-like skin and his skull barely covered with anything more than a few tufts of translucent hair, she was willing to admit that Willem was indeed very old.

In comparison, Viserys was the opposite. The contrast was funny, especially when the old knight was next to her brother. Viserys looked a lot like her, but that was normal because he was her brother. Laena had said several times that where she had taken their late mother Queen Rhaella, Viserys had taken their late father King Aerys. Viserys’ face was a little longer and less heart-shaped than her own. His hair was just as silvery and even tended to curl. Willem had said that their late brother Prince Rhaegar and their niece Princess Rhaenys also had curly hair. Nevertheless, rather than inheriting from the eyes of their eldest and their father, a deep amethyst purple and sometimes almost indigo, Viserys had likewise inherited from their mother's eyes, whose purple colour shimmered not with indigo but with lilac. Viserys had often complained about their eyes, seeing in them a “woman's colour” that could not “befit a king of the Targaryen dynasty”; he quickly changed his tune when Muña told him that she loved them.

“You're back, Lady Laena, princess. We were getting impatient, especially the prince.” Willem said in a soft, almost faded tone. “Please come and sit down and let us taste this delicious cake. I do believe I have outdone myself today.”

Dany held him up and didn't keep him waiting. She came and sat down in a hurry to the left of Viserys, barely sparing him a glance and ignoring his usual grumbling. In any case, as soon as their aunt came and sat on the other side and kissed her brother on the cheek, his grumbling turned into stuttering before he fell silent with a heavy blush. Her brother was really weird when he was in the presence of their aunt.

On the other side of the table, watching them tenderly, Ser Willem cut their cake into many pieces and served them in turn, handing out silverware and small white porcelain plates.

And like every day, the four of them savoured their famous tangy delicacy, in that quietness she loved so much and talking about everything and nothing.

That day, the lemon in the cake was particularly tasty.

* * *

**THE SILVER LADY**

Ten years ago, when she was still a lady-in-waiting to her friend and Queen Rhaella Targaryen and serving at the Red Keep in King's Landing, Laena Velaryon would never have even imagined that she would have become what was now known in the Seven Kingdoms as a “loyalist fugitive”. The Targaryen dynasty was then promised to a great future, in spite of the king's delusions, his undeniable bloodthirsty eccentricities and the tensions they created between the Wardens and the Lords Paramount of the kingdom. The kingdom was then stable, relatively prosperous, and apart from the Defiance of Duskendale and the few revolts of the Kingswood Brotherhood, the kingdom had not seen an armed conflict for more than twenty years. No one would have imagined at that time that the Targaryen dynasty would disappear in a bloody tragedy and in the flames of rebellion. And yet, morbid fantasies and childish fears became reality. The kingdom rose up and Prince Rhaegar died in battle. Then it was the turn of the king and princess Elia, who were sadly murdered. And everything had changed. Today, Lady Laena Velaryon was there, in exile and on the run, watching over her queen's children, weighed down by the challenges of the past as well as those of the future.

The first years were spent in fear and an overwhelming fear of reprisals. The war had been lost and the Queen was dead. By the end of the war, the remnants of the Targaryen fleet still present around Dragonstone had been terminated by the same typhoon that had seen the birth of the last royal princess of the kingdom. In their kindness, the Seven had also sunk the rebel fleet in the typhoon, allowing the last Targaryen loyalists to carry away in a desperate flight the last heirs of the Iron Throne, far from the vengeful fury of the many rebel houses. Away from the ruthless and felonious Lannister clutches. They had then wandered, from hideout to hideout, from city to city, away from the Seven Kingdoms, for almost two years. They hid where they could, abandoned by many of their own along the way, and left just as much when their loyalty seemed to be in doubt. They had then sought as much support as they could, never finding enough, or reliable enough. Ser Willem Darry was a resourceful man, but he was too naive to think he could gather an army of Targaryen loyalists in lands as far away and dangerous as Essos. All that mattered was survival.

Here, everything had a price, even freedom and even life. In Myr, Laena had noticed that free citizens often exploited servile men to the death to feed their sophisticated industries. A polished glass lens was worth more than a man's life, so much so that to die at work for a slave was sometimes in the eyes of his master as much a virtue as a necessary industrial imperative. Human life had no value and the productivity of a body was favoured. In Tyrosh, she had seen hundreds of men reduced to the vulgar state of rowers, so much so that their masters would chain them like cattle on their benches until death followed. The oars which these slaves operated became the sole reason for their existence, and the ships on which they lived inevitably became their graves. They knew no family, no wives, and no children. In Lys, these very women and children were reduced to objects of pleasure, subject to the hubris and whims of men; if their fate was not so systematically disastrous, it was no more enviable. They only traded chains for sheets.

Each stopover beyond the Narrow Sea meant more and more risk. Risks of being found by the usurpers perhaps on their tracks to finish what had been started in the nursery of the Red Keep. Risks of being stabbed by their own servants, whose loyalty was being tested more and more by the precariousness imposed on them by this eternal wandering. Risks of being betrayed by their own hosts, whose courteous words often concealed many other intentions. More than anything else, Laena had been most afraid of them. For the Targaryen loyalists had little to gain from being welcomed by former supporters of the Crown and everything to lose, for their lives could be sold at high prices. And if not to the usurper, to the highest bidder and most eccentric slavers in the Free Cities, condemning them to lives of suffering. Some magisters, other merchant princes or even sorcerers could only dream of having Targaryen blood slaves in their possession. Such things Laena would never allow. Not for the sweet children of Queen Rhaella.

So Laena had been buying time. As much time as she could make it possible. She had forced Ser Willem Darry to never stay in one place for too long. They had left Myr after three moons, then Lys after four. They hadn't even stayed one moon in Tyrosh, for their hosts at the time didn't inspire any trust and the city's values of slavery were the antithesis of what the Seven Kingdoms were. There had never been any plans to go to Volantis: if Ser Willem had been tempted by the idea, the potential danger that the Old Blood of Volantis had inspired in Laena had convinced the old knight of the futility of taking such a risk. Moreover, if the climate of life in Tyrosh was particularly violent, it was nothing compared to the Volantene society, which was closest to what the Old Valyria and its Freehold had been. She would never be able to expose Viserys and Daenerys to such an ambient inhumanity. They had then wandered, losing more and more of their followers, weary of the expedition. Until they ended up alone, relying on the remains of the Queen's fortune and travelling by coastal caravans and itinerant merchant ships. Until they end up here, in Braavos.

Laena watched distractedly as the dizzying peaks of the north of the city, an area the locals called “Citadel”, were lost in the skies. Sometimes, as the sun broke through the morning mist and the cerulean vault rose clearly over the greyish mist, the great Secret City took on a celestial appearance. Crossing the white sky, the astral luminescence of the braavosi day could be seen in the distance, almost palpable, releasing a beam of light that came to illuminate with all its strength the high silver peaks of the city. The first of all was the one that could be seen no matter where one was in Braavos: the elevated and dominant structure of the Iron Bank, an immense fortress palace almost five hundred feet high, permanently haloed with light as soon as the sun rose on the horizon. Then the other mastodons of the city, the palace of the Sealord of Braavos, the Palace of Truth, the temples of the Isle of the Gods and finally the great Titan, who appeared when the last remains of the fog dissipated around him.

This grandiose clarity was only a reflection of what Braavos was. Here, there was no slavery and no slaughter. The wars waged by some of the braavosi armies against other Free Cities, mainly Volantis, had very little impact above the lands of Andalos, the vast northern continental region that separated Braavos from the rest of the continent. As for the welcome they had received from the Braavos government upon their arrival at the Chequy Port at the end of 285, it had been particularly cordial and warm. An unused manor house which was part of the heritage of the House Prestayn had been entrusted to them in good faith and Willem Darry managed it in the name of the Sealord, at the same time allowing them to reside there.

Since then, their life in the City of the Hundred Isles had proved to be particularly peaceful and the days followed one another in a harmonious flow.

Laena Velaryon would have preferred it to last indefinitely.

“Lady Velaryon…” Syrello blew in embarrassment.

The latter was standing in reception in front of the villa gate, wearing a braavosi guard uniform. The Velaryon had seen him only once in such an outfit. And he was not alone. On either side of the gate, a dozen men-at-arms were on the street. Their hoplitic outfits, combining heavy white linothoraxes with impressive muscular iron or bronze armour, did not mislead, nor did their matching hoplite helmets with their purple-tinted, horsehair crests. Long purple, red and blue capes covered their shoulders, adding to their warlike appearance a noble look. The few passing residents, understanding who they were, did not linger on the spot and continued on their way. No one would have blamed them, no matter what.

Laena shared an uncertain gaze with Syrello and stepped forward, passing the gate of the villa with a quick step. There were more guards in the garden, and in addition to those guarding the outside, the Velaryon numbered about thirty. Had she doubted their identity for a few seconds, the large banner planted in the grass with the lordly Purple and the Braavos hoplitic helmet assured Laena that they were none other than the Sealord's elite guard.

“Muña!” she heard then.

Laena saw Daenerys running towards her, followed by Viserys. The two young Targaryen had obviously been waiting for her on the terrace not far from the main entrance to the villa. “Dany…” she whispered as the girl threw herself into her arms. Laena felt her anxiety quite easily. Viserys' expression was firm, but it only took a caress from her on the boy's cheek for him to calm down, despite the strangeness of the situation.

“Muña, there are all these scary soldiers in the house!” Daenerys exclaimed, raising her head. “Why are they here?”

Confused, Laena looked at Viserys, but he just shrugged his shoulders and looked uncertain.

“We didn't see everything, we were in the outside gardens.” he said. “But Ser Willem is talking to their representative right now. The guards wouldn't let me in.”

 _What can they want?_ She thought before she looked at the many men in front of the villa. Some of their servants watched them from the windows, with worried looks. _Does this concern the Iron Bank...? No, they would have come before if that was the case._ Syrello Orlas approached her, holding his helmet against his flank. He looked so dashing for such an honest man, it was almost frightening. Such a demonstration led her to only one plausible conclusion. _No, it can only be about the kingdom._

“Let us not linger, Lady Velaryon. You are awaited.” said the braavosi.

Laena nodded, parting from Daenerys while reassuring her with a caress in her thin silver hair. Waving to the two Braavian guards present, Syrello led the way and entered the villa first. Laena followed him, holding Viserys and Daenerys each by one hand, and the two soldiers closed the march. Laena realized that there were as many men inside the manor as outside, and although they did not seem openly hostile, their manner of positioning themselves and blocking the axes to the servants of the manor made her realize the underlying threat they were releasing. Although they actually only went upstairs, this short trip was as long and heavy as an atonement march and they finally arrived in front of Ser Willem Darry's quarters.

“Your Serene Lordship.” then announced Syrello as he entered and bowed. “Lady Velaryon has arrived.”

 _Your Serene Lordship_ , she thought. This was the way one had to address the Sealord. So he was indeed there. _This must be the kingdom. What's happened? Is it serious?_ Laena tried to hide her anguish from her protégés… Dany was too young to worry about their problems and Viserys could still spend a few carefree years before he had to worry about the fate of the House Targaryen and his role as heir. “Send her in.” she thought she heard. In any case, Syrello turned around and nodded his head to her before moving to the side to invite them in. Then Laena complied.

The reception room in Willem Darry's quarters was a most welcoming place. A few cushions were placed on comfortable armchairs around a coffee table on which silverware and a few porcelain cups with steaming contents were laid out; tea most certainly. The room exuded a certain luxury while remaining formal enough for meetings. Laena obviously found Ser Willem Darry sitting on one of the armchairs. Opposite him, just as comfortably seated, was the man who had recently occupied the thoughts of the Lady of Driftmarck.

The present Sealord of Braavos, the same one who had personally welcomed them to Braavos and who had since proved to be their protector in all things: Lord Ferrego of the House Antaryon. Behind him, standing firm and upright were two men wearing light but neatly stitched doublet covered with gold bindings. They were dressed in the same attire as Lord Ferrego. Beautiful swords were attached to their hips. _The Swords of Braavos. The companions of Syrello._

“Lady Velaryon, what a pleasure to see you again!” Ferrego Antaryon greeted her as he rose to his feet. “As always, you look lovely.” he added, a smile woven across his face.

“Your Serene Lordship.” she replied in reply with a respectful curtsy.

“No need to be so formal, Lady Velaryon.” he said, before observing Syrello. “I see that my third sword does its duty well. I am delighted to have assigned him to you.”

Laena just nodded. Ferrego Antaryon pointed to the two men around him with a wave of his hand.

“You haven't been introduced yet, despite your prolonged residence in my city. This is Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos and my dearest companion.” he said, pointing to the man on his right. Despite his position and title, the man was strangely small. Ferrego seemed to have understood her thoughts as he released a laugh. “Don't be fooled by his appearance. Syrio is undoubtedly the best swordsman in Braavos at the moment, and I dare to hope, the best in Essos.”

“I have no doubt, Lord Ferrego…” she replied kindly, giving a grateful look to the person concerned. Syrio Forel seemed inflexible, judging by his stern demeanour.

“As for this gentleman, he is none other than Qarro Volentin, my second sword, apprentice of the first and heir of the House Volentin of Braavos.”

“Delighted to meet you, Lady Velaryon.” enchained the so-called Qarro. He was more talkative than his master.

The gaze of the Sealord then fell on her protégés. His gaze was rather difficult to interpret, but it was evident that they had been the object of discussion before their arrival.

“Their Royal Highnesses seem to be doing well. That's good to know... but no more etiquette. I have something to say to you, Lady Velaryon. Please take a seat.”

Laena understood at once that this was not a request despite the calm tone of the braavosi, so she stepped forward to take her place where the man had beckoned her to sit. There was a problem, however, and it was Viserys who first pointed it out.

“What about us?”

It was a simple question, but one that was so important. Lord Ferrego didn't answer, merely observing him in silence. Laena saw the discomfort in Ser Willem's tired eyes and then concentrated on her little prince.

Viserys was clever. Laena knew that he had understood why the Lord of Braavos remained silent.

“You're going to discuss our case, aren't you?” he continued as his voice faltered. He seemed indignant. “I am the Crown Prince of the House Targaryen, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms! I believe I have a right to hear what is said, especially when it concerns me and my sister!”

“You're right, Prince Viserys. You are rightfully the crown prince of the House Targaryen. But, correct me if I'm wrong, it seemed to me that the House Targaryen had been out of power in the Seven Kingdoms for seven years… Or else I must have been mistaken, my prince. Your brother Prince Rhaegar did not die at the Trident, your parents are still alive and you are not here as a loyalist refugee from the Seven Kingdoms.”

Laena trembled at the harsh words of Lord Antaryon. Ser Willem seemed to have cowered. When she looked at her little protégés, brother and sister had turned pale.

“It's…”

The Braavosi raised his hand to interrupt the young Targaryen before he could even get his act together and retaliate.

“This is Braavos, my prince, not the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Willem and Lady Laena are your regents and are qualified to handle any matter concerning your interests. Please withdraw. Syrello, escort their Royal Highnesses to their chambers.”

Laena's heart trembled as she saw the frustration painted on her little prince's face. Viserys was still young and the memories of the rebellion of Robert Baratheon still fresh in his mind. He was only eight years old at the time. He looked at her, as if to call for help. Then Laena gave him a gentle, soothing look. _It's all right, my prince. Leave it to me._ She tried to convey to him with her thoughts and her eyes… Viserys then resigned himself, and with a vague acquiescence, looking defeated, he withdrew and took Daenerys by the hand.

Syrello turned to her and smiled a sorry smile before disappearing in his turn. The silence returned to the room, barely interrupted by the sporadic tinkling of the silver spoon of Lord Ferrego as he drained it against his cup of tea.

“As you can imagine, my visit here is not just a courtesy call.” he said calmly.

“This is about the realm, isn't it? Something has happened... Otherwise you wouldn't be here, and certainly not with such an escort.”

Lord Ferrego didn't answer her immediately. He grabbed his cup and took a small sip. He then put it down and concentrated on her. He seemed particularly annoyed, from the look on his face.

“As I was just saying to Ser Darry, the situation has changed, Lady Velaryon. Robert Baratheon's victory over Balon Greyjoy at Pyke changes everything.”

Laena felt her heart racing and shared a worried look with Willem. The Usurper and his followers had been facing a widespread rebellion on the Iron Islands for a year. News had reached Braavos that Lannisport had been attacked and that the Western fleet had been destroyed along with the city during the attack. According to the sailors who brought the news, Balon Greyjoy had even proclaimed himself King of Salt and Rock.

However, Laena did not understand how the defeat of the Greyjoys could have changed anything. Robert Baratheon was still the king.

“Did you doubt his victory, Lord Ferrego?” she asked then.

Ferrego's annoyed expression grew even stronger in response to her question. He took his cup in his hand and swallowed what was left of the tea in one gulp.

“The problem is not that he won, Lady Velaryon, but how he won. And how it even compromises me politically within my own city!”

He had begun to answer her methodically, in a rational and restrained tone, but he had increased his tone halfway through his reply. He stood up and began pacing. He looked impatient and worried. Laena wouldn't have needed to be quick-witted to realize that. Syrio Forel and Qarro Volentin, on the other hand, hadn't moved an inch. She waited a few seconds, but the man seemed to be caught up in many personal reflections, as if subject to many calculations.

“Your Lordship…?” she questioned humbly.

In the uncertainty, Laena thought it best to remain humble. The Sealord probably emerged from his thoughts and came to sit down again soon enough. 

“Your Lordship, how could the victory of Robert Baratheon over the Ironborn upset your position? I do not understand.”

“Normally I wouldn't understand it myself, and yet I do.” he replied hastily, his fingers tapping nervously against the arm of his seat. “As I told you, the problem is not his victory as such. It is how he achieved such a victory. Lady Velaryon, as the former Lady of Driftmarck, you understand better than anyone else the balance of power between the powers of the Narrow Sea. In your opinion, in the light of Baratheon's victory over the Ironborn, a crushing victory if ever there was one, what could be the reason why my position is compromised?”

Laena shared her gaze for a moment, but the upset look on the face of the Sealord of Braavos was equivocal enough to put her on the right track. She was the former lady of Driftmarck. _There would only be one thing connected with the House Velaryon that could upset a lord of Braavos so much._

“The entire fleet of Dragonstone was sunk by a typhoon, Your Lordship… at the birth of Princess Daenerys.”

The wrinkled eyes of the lord of the House Antaryon made the Velaryon understand that she had put her finger on the problem.

“This fleet has been rebuilt, Lady Velaryon. This fleet has been rebuilt, augmented and optimized! It was successfully deployed during the war and sank to the bottom nearly three-quarters of the Iron Fleet near Fair Isle.”

 _How is that possible?_ She thought at once. The suzerainty of Dragonstone and its vassalages had been ceded to the House Stark... Even worse, to insult the House Targaryen and its supporters, it was apparently the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark who was destined to inherit the fief and its possessions. This Jon Snow was only a child, barely older than the princess, and his current regents were lords of the North... No lord of the Narrow Sea would have agreed to finance a complete rebuilding of the fleet of Dragonstone, especially not for a bastard of House Stark. Laena knew her cousin Monford Velaryon wouldn't accept it.

“How?” she asked then. “I'm sure my cousin Monford would have refused to produce ships for the House Stark. And he's not the most stubborn of the Lords of the Narrow Sea. Lord Ardrian Celtigar would rather slit his wrists than give an ounce of his fortune to the Usurper or his watchdogs.”

“Neither your cousin nor the Red Crab has participated in the rebuilding of this fleet. Officially, the builder and owner of this fleet is the House Stark of Dragonstone. Unofficially, it was the North that has built up this fleet with its own funding, and Lord Benjen Stark is in command of it.”

Ser Willem was standing there, looking guilty. The Darry would look no more like the old man he was than when he put on that contrite and defeated expression. An expression she had come to know him by on rare occasions. She frowned as she stared at him. He knew, she realized. _He knew, and he didn't tell me. He kept it from me. How long had he been hiding it? And why?_

“How many ships…?” she hesitated to ask.

“Enough to impose naval supremacy on the Iron Fleet when combined with the fleet of the Arbor. My sources have reported about one hundred ships, if not more.”

It didn't take Laena long to figure out why this fleet was a problem.

“What's all this going to mean for us?”

By “us” they all understood she was referring to the Targaryen.

“You're a clever woman, Lady Velaryon. You know what that means…” he replied. “The presence of this fleet in the Narrow Sea has caused the Iron Bank to reconsider its passive attitude. As for my rivals, they are already using it to harm me. By granting you refuge at the expense of Braavos... No, by granting you refuge at all, some accuse me of harming the interests of the city. The Prestayn have already submitted an eviction request, knowing that this property belongs to them.”

Laena felt pale by the look of it.

“No… it's…! Lord Ferrego, are you going to cast us out? What will become of us? We have nowhere else to go!”

And despite this, the braavosi remained inflexible. Laena began to feel bitter and gullible. She knew that the lord of the House Antaryon had taken advantage of their presence to gild his stature and image in the political and social circles of the city. Offering refuge to the last legitimate heirs to the Iron Throne. To the descendants of Aegon the Conqueror. _Is this the limit of Targaryen support? To be supported and used until it no longer makes political sense?_

Lord Ferrego sighed again.

“I'm not so cruel as to leave you to the wolves. I won't drive you out of the city unless the Iron Throne demands it, but I must stop supporting you. I've already discussed this with Willem Darry. That's why I'm here today: to help you negotiate an alternative.”

What was he talking about? What was the alternative to expulsion? They had no funds other than the meagre financial reserves and royalties left by the Queen. Suddenly, Laena began to feel anxious. The look on the face of Willem Darry, the opaque look in Ferrego Antaryon's eyes, his references to previous encounters… _What is he talking about? What did he talk about with Darry? What's the alternative?_

“Bring him in.” Ferrego Antaryon exclaimed, as Qarro Volentin nodded and walked towards one of the doors of the room.

_What? Bring in who?_

And Laena thought she was having a seizure when she saw one of the last people she wanted to see walk through the doorstep. She began to shake, but she didn't know exactly what. Fear, frustration, anger. But she knew she was covered in cold sweat as her blue eyes met the dark eyes of the Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne.

She stood up at once, gazing furiously at the Sealord of Braavos and Ser Willem Darry. _They tricked me! What madness, they tricked me!_

“Willem, how dare you!? Have you gone mad!? What the hell has gotten into you to make contact with the Martells!?”

“Lady Laena…” he blew with difficulty. He wouldn't dare say anything more, this unconscious man.

As for Oberyn Martell, he approached them nonchalantly, an almost satisfied expression on his face. Laena immediately began to move backwards.

“Don't come near me!” she exclaimed, and yet he continued.

“Lady Velaryon, if I had wanted to kill the Mad King's mistress, you would have been dead weeks ago.” he replied. “If your husband had been there, however…”

“Lucerys was not my husband!” she replied curtly. “I refuse to consider this vile man my _husband_!”

“And yet he was, just as you were the Mad King's mistress.”

 _Plague be upon this man, how dare he?_ Laena stared at Willem Darry again, giving him all the indignation she felt at his betrayal.

“I had nothing to do with what happened to Princess Elia or her children, nothing! Then what do you want from me?”

“Lady Velaryon, please calm down and sit down.” Lord Ferrego finally claimed. “The Prince is part of the reason I have not yet completely abandoned you. So, by all the gods, sit down.”

Laena clenched her fists and teeth. She tried, despite the piercing gaze of the Prince of Dorne, to stop the trembling that ran through her body, and then she sat down again.

And then she listened.

_Damn them all._

***

“You are crazy!”

“Lady Laena… Listen to me…”

“No, Willem! You listen to me! What you've done is treason! An act of sheer madness! Don't you realize that?”

Prince Oberyn, Lord Ferrego Antaryon and his retinue had been away from the manor for many hours, but it took Laena a period of calm and solitude to come to terms with what had happened to them. _But Willem's betrayal is something else. I could never accept it._

“Contacting Dorne… What the hell were you thinking?” she finally thundered.

The walls of Willem's apartments would remain thick enough so that no one but him could hear her voice.

“I'm an old man, Lady Laena… I feel my end coming. I couldn't rest easy, knowing that I would soon leave those children with nothing. We needed help…”

Laena wanted to tear her hair out over that line. _What about me? Aren't I also here to look after them? Which one of us got an audience with Antaryon?_ That old man could have taken them to meet the Triarchs of Volantis if she hadn't been there to stop him from committing the irreparable. She approached the window and looked up at the evening sky.

“I don't know how you could have done this without telling me. I spent almost seven years protecting those children, Willem, seven years! I don't know if you're even aware of the gravity of what you've just done.”

The hesitant look on the face of Willem showed her that he didn't know anything about it. _Of course he didn't! He was only the master-at-arms of the Red Keep. How could he even know anything incriminating about the royals?_

“Ser Willem… Lucerys Velaryon, _my husband_ , was the Master of Ships of the Seven Kingdoms. One of the rivals–… no, one of the most zealous enemies of Prince Rhaegar. A man as mad and deviant as his king, so much so that he threw me without a second thought, like a common whore, into the arms of Aerys, when the latter was not busy burning poor people or raping his queen! Lucerys is one of the main reasons why Princess Elia and her children were detained at King's Landing, despite the orders given by Prince Rhaegar to send them away with the queen. And you, without consulting me, make contact with House Martell? What's to stop them from killing us both and taking the children, now that they know where we've taken refuge? Tell me, Ser Willem!”

The old man didn't answer. In fact, he wasn't even looking at her. The man was unaware of the worst of the things that had happened to her or the queen or even the prince. _And now that the Martells know… how long will it take before Varys finds out? What will we do then? We'll have to run. As far away as we can._

“I can't believe you negotiated behind my back to sell them the children.”

“Lady Laena… how could I…?”

“Isn't that what you did? Engagement between Prince Viserys and Princess Arianne Martell? What will they ask next? Engagement between Princess Daenerys and Prince Quentyn Martell? I know they will. Or will they sell her to the Tyrells to infuse Targaryen blood into their bloodline and secure a precious alliance for the benefit of their Martell queen. You can count on me to deny it to them with the utmost force. You will not condemn Daenerys!”

“My lady, surely such an engagement is not as negative as you might think. Your affection for the children clouds your judgment.”

“And you, Ser Willem, your longing for the kingdom clouds yours. The kingdom is dead. The House Targaryen is destroyed. And House Martell is not the noble house you idealized. You trust them far too much. And that's not the worst of it. The worst part is that you brought us back into the game when I spent seven years trying to keep us out of it.”

“The game, my lady...?”

“Yes, Ser Willem. The game of thrones.”

* * *

**THE SILVER PRINCESS**

**291**

Syrello was the first man she saw die.

Adults often said that she was too young to hear or see certain things, but Daenerys was not so young that she didn't know what death was. This was all the more true because she had finally learned that Braavos was the only city in the world that worshipped death as a god. “ _What do we say to the god of death, little princess?_ ” Those had been his last words, while the forecourt of the little sept not far from the villa was still stained with his blood. _Not today._

Ser Willem's servants had gone one after the other over the weeks, and the corridors of the villa were now almost deserted. Only a few guards had remained, three maids, the old cook who helped them make lemon pies in the afternoon. “ _I'm sorry, milady! They took everything and ran away, please have mercy!_ ” she had heard at the bend of a corridor on the first floor, as a maid prostrated herself at Muña's feet. While Muña had taken her and Viserys for a walk on the Isle of the Gods, Ser Willem had suddenly fallen ill and collapsed. Many of the servants had run away and taken many precious things.

Muña had said nothing and Daenerys had never seen the young woman again.

“Your Highness.” whispered to her one of the three remaining maidservants. She was the personal maidservant of Ser Willem; her name was Tyana. “The master asks for you. He's with Lady Velaryon.”

Daenerys nodded silently and put an end to the movements of the swing attached to the large oak tree overlooking the rear garden of the villa. She stepped into the cool grass, while the young maid helped her put on her white leather shoes.

Anxious, refraining from chewing her lower lip, the little Targaryen princess reached the villa and climbed to the first floor, guided by the maid. The walls once covered with rich tapestries and portraits were now mostly bare, leaving only beige and pink plaster walls that were cracked in some places. Soon she arrived in front of the half-open door of the room of Willem. “I'll hide them for as long as it takes. I will never let the Spider get his hands on them as long as I shall live, rest assured, Willem.” she thought she heard.

“Master, Her Highness is here.” the maid announced, knocking at the door.

“Bring her in, please, Tyana.” the old knight said weakly.

So Dany entered.

Ser Willem was in his bed. He was very pale, he looked emaciated. Muña was sitting at his bedside, on a small chair. The sight of the old man's weakened condition brought tears to her eyes. The two adults looked at her, the first one smiling in spite of his condition while the second looked at her tenderly.

“Come closer, my child… Come and sit down…”

Then Daenerys approached, while Muña stood up. Passing in front of her, she gave her a sweet and tender kiss on the forehead, before leaving the room, followed by Tyana.

“Don't cry, sweet princess.” Ser Willem said . “I'm old, very old. I have done my time. I have accomplished many things in my long life, many things. I am happy. I had the honour of watching you and Prince Viserys grow up to be two beautiful and lively children. That is enough for me.”

Daenerys could not hold back her tears. She was afraid that Ser Willem would leave, that he wouldn't be around to read or tell her many stories about dragons, the Seven Kingdoms or Essos. That he would no longer be there to sing with her while she learned to play on the harp like her older brother the Prince Rhaegar.

“You can't leave now, Ser Willem.” she heard herself say between her sobs. “Don't leave us all alone, Viserys will be sad and Muña will be worried.”

She was lying. She was the one who would be sad and worried, but Viserys loved Ser Willem very much too, so it wasn't a big lie. Ser Willem laughed between two coughing fits badly contained by his linen handkerchief, and then he came and put his hand on hers.

“My dear, don't be sorry for me. You'll have a long life, full of adventure and happiness, I'm sure… I asked Tyana to bake a lemon pie this morning. Would you like to eat some while I tell you a story about the Seven Kingdoms?”

Drying her tears, Daenerys nodded and tried as hard as she could to keep smiling like a princess. Ser Willem seemed delighted with her approval.

“Have I ever told you about the fabulous duel between the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard and the sinister Smiling Knight?”

Tyana then brought them the lemon pie already cut up, and while she ate shyly, Ser Willem Darry, the old master-at-arms of the Red Keep, told her his very last story.

The old knight died in his sleep the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour, everyone,
> 
> I want to apologize for being a week or two late. The translation turned out to be a little harder than I thought, but more importantly, my progress on Chapter V in the French version slowed me down more than I thought. I hope I won't be as long on the translation of Chapter IV concerning Rhaenys Targaryen, but I can't promise anything: it is the densest and the most complicated to translate of all.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I hope that I have produced a pleasant translation.
> 
> This was the first part of Daenerys Targaryen's adventure before her destiny became tied to her kin. We get to know who she is, what she likes, her personality angles, her supporters. She is a little girl who evolves in the peaceful setting of the braavosi society. The Sealord sponsors her household and she lives free from threats... until the end of the chapter, of course.
> 
> I have taken some liberties with the character of Willem Darry; according to what Dany reports in the books, he was a man all in mass, of a stature corresponding to his title of knight and royal master-at-arms. Even when he was very old and ill, the man shouted his orders to the servants of the villa, who obeyed him diligently. The Willem Darry of my chapter seems quite far from this observation, however circumstances change with Laena's presence: Willem Darry falls ill and dies later (at least a year later, whereas in the books he dies between the year 289 and the year 290, leaving Viserys and Dany very early). I think that Willem Darry died of cancer, quite abruptely, which explained his weakening and his rapid bed rest according to what Daenerys tells us.
> 
> In any case, Daenerys is fortunate to live in a peaceful family climate: lady Laena Velaryon of High Tide is there for her as a maternal figure, a young woman who also handles her older brother's princely frustrations with ease.
> 
> Of course, the end of the chapter leaves great uncertainty about her future. The presence of the Martells and what this implies does not augur well for them (of course, they do not suspect the existence of Rhaenys, so in the eyes of Laena Velaryon, the Martells are far from being unconditional allies of the Targaryen cause and are therefore threats).
> 
> Daenerys, Viserys and Laena will come back in the future, but the next chapter will feature Rhaenys Targaryen and Dorne.
> 
> ***
> 
> Valyrian vocabulary :
> 
> \- Rytsas : Hello  
>  \- Ābrāzma Velārio : Lady Velaryon.  
>  => From ābra [ˈaːbra] (Lunar Declensions) : Woman + -āzma (Lunar Termination) : augmentative termination, which lead from Woman (neutral term) to Lady (augmentated term).  
>  \- Skorkydoso glaesā? : How are you ?  
>  \- Syrī glaesan : I'm fine.
> 
> I had to create the Lady term, in accordance with the Valyrian grammar conventions, which was absolutely a pain. I hate it :')


	4. A Princess in the South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction of Rhaenys, of the Sand Snakes, of Arianne Martell and her retinue. Births, engagement, rituals and love in the shadow of Shandystone and Sunspear.

**THE SUN PRINCESS**

**294**

Rhaenys watched the lonely water lily slowly drifting along the Greenblood. Its flower was large and beautiful, as bright blue as the azure and cloudless sky of Dorne; it contrasted with the greenish, earthy tones of the riverbed and the great red dunes that piled up in the distance, towards the south, and rose above the olive and citrus orchards. The poor one must have been lost farther upstream, drawn by the stream in spite of the stagnant waters of the centuries-old canals; the water lilies rarely grew anywhere else but in these waters, where the silt was soft, the stream weak, and the water rich.

The poorest people of the Planky Town, further down the river, would not deprive themselves of collecting the precious flower and dyeing it: if the blue flower was of very little value to a high-born girl like her, this was not the case for the common people of Sunspear, who exchanged the noble dye at great cost once it had been refined and applied to beautiful and fine dresses made of Myr lace. She had rolled hers up to her thighs while she bathed her calves in the water and the whiskerfishes came to tickle them.

Here and there, Rhaenys saw various shallow-draft barges going down the river. Loaded almost to the brim with baskets of olives or amphoras of Dorne wine, they most probably came from the river port of Godsgrace, fiefdom of the House Allyrion. _Daemon's family. As much as he likes to brag about it, he is not much more likely to inherit it than he is to get the hand of Arianne._ Rhaenys had often seen the same barges making the opposite route, going up the river as best they could. Their owners were struggling, most of the time with only a pole, which they used to lean on the riverbed to push their makeshift boats. When the boats were loaded with fish or seafood, Rhaenys had come to understand that they came from the Planky Town or Sunspear. On the other hand, when they were loaded with citrus fruits, usually lemons, then they came from Lemonwood, fief of the House Dalt. _Drey's family. He brags a lot less about it than Daemon and he will certainly inherit it._

The rising earth breeze brought with it the hot and arid air of the Vaith and the sandy desert of the southwest. Added to the nascent morning sun, anyone who did not hold the blood of Rhoynar as she did would soon have called the climate a furnace. But Rhaenys had already experienced far worse heat, and the fresh water of the Greenblood flowing peacefully around her naked legs helped her not to concentrate too much on the aggressiveness of the rays of the rising sun of Dorne, which were constantly beating down on her golden skin.

Not only the fresh water, but also the amusing colourful barges that occupied her sight, each with its own gradation of green paint and its own original shapes, honouring the history and folklore of the orphan tribes; the “Orphans of the Green Blood”, as they had called themselves. More Rhoynish than the salty and sandy Dornishmen put together, they had never really integrated into Dorne. They still worshipped the gods of Rhoynar and still regarded the distant Rhoyne River as their deified mother, despite the fact that they had never seen it and would never see it again. That was where they took their strange name from. Rhaenys often saw their children playing on their boats, heckling between baskets of citrus fruit and running after seagulls under the watchful eyes of their parents. They seemed far removed from the cruelty of this world. _I would have given anything to be that kind of orphan, not the kind I became._

A pair of arms that embraced her at shoulder level quickly took care to pull her out of her thoughts. They were thin and so clear compared to her own that it didn't take long for Rhaenys to guess who owned them. The wet imprint left on her bare shoulder by a sweet pair of lips finally made her understand.

“Nym.” Rhaenys simply pronounced.

“Nym, that's all?” the intruder whispered in her ear as she tightened her embrace. “Four months since we last saw each other and yet you're so cold, Shaera.”

Rhaenys laughed, far from being upset by the young woman's reply leaning against her back. The latter's reproach did not sound like a reproach in view of her cheerful tone and the warmth of her embrace. Rhaenys quickly gave in to her, leaning back and letting her head rest on the clear, bare shoulder of her charming escort. Immediately she saw a large pair of dark purple eyes that exuded Old Valyria.

In an instant, Rhaenys brought the beautiful, clear face of the so-called Nym closer to her own with a wave of her hand and kissed her. She became tender and giggled as they shared lips and tongues. Seconds later, they broke their bond, both of them half panting. Nymeria will always have that lemon taste.

For it was Nymeria Sand, her older “sister”. Her cousin, in truth, but the Rhoynish beauty would never know it, nor would any of her other cousins.

“There, now I recognize my favourite little sister.” she pronounced contentedly, burying her face in the back of her neck.

“You know I'll never be cold to you, Nymeria.” Rhaenys said, before turning to her and displaying a particularly teasing smile. “But how can you be so sure that I'm your favourite? I'm sure that Tyene is better than me when it comes to please a woman.”

Nymeria immediately began to laugh, but whether she was laughing with disdain or not, Rhaenys was not so sure; Nymeria's laughter was difficult to understand.

“The only woman that Tyene would diligently bring to orgasm carries the title of princess and is called Arianne.” sarcastically threw the pretty Sand at her. _I also carry the title of princess, but my name is not Arianne._ “Also, I didn't know that I based my fraternal preference criteria on the way my sisters licked my crotch.”

“Damn, I would have sworn.”

This time Nym's laughter was crystal clear. Rhaenys had always said that Nymeria had the prettiest laugh of all the Martells - when her laughter was sincere, though, and all the vipers of Shandystone knew that they were not that numerous.

“What were you doing out here alone in the middle of nowhere anyway? Sarella and I had been looking for you for a few minutes.” Nymeria asked afterwards. “Obara, too…”

“What about Obara?”

“You know her… She saddled her horse and rode off in a hurry, saying she was going to lead the way while she went to get you. She thought that you left without us. I think even under a cloudless sky, the Seven would end up lightning her if she were to stay in one place for more than two minutes.”

It was up to Rhaenys to laugh this time. But the idea of Obara getting struck by lightning because of inertia was simply hilarious and quite possible. The eldest daughter of Oberyn Martell seemed as if she was forever chasing something she would never catch, and every excuse was good to restart the hunt. The hunt for what, everyone wondered.

“To answer you, I was just waiting. I've been here for an hour, I think. I was looking at the water.”

Nymeria looked at her confusedly.

“What's so interesting about watching it for an hour straight?”

Rhaenys gave her a little smile before turning back to the children running along the Orphans' boats, carefree of the misery.

“Life.”

Nymeria remained silent at her answer, not knowing what to say.

“You're the weirdest of us all, Shaera.” she declared with amusement.

“Not as weird as you, Lady Lick.” Rhaenys replied before throwing herself at her.

“You have no right.” Nymeria laughed as they heckled without much force, sometimes tickling each other, sometimes stealing a kiss on the sly. “We all promised we'd forget that nickname, Shae!”

“Hm, I don't know! You make it hard to forget, with that sinful tongue of yours, Nym…”

In the end, Rhaenys had found herself straddling her, dominating her with her shadow, and a silence had settled between them as her long silver strand, which she had chosen never to cut, tickled Nym's face. Rhaenys didn't really know when, perhaps it was when Nymeria had begun to wrap her strand around her index finger with affection, but they found themselves again exchanging a languid kiss, sharing breath and saliva without much scruples.

Nymeria was her favourite cousin. She was the most intelligent of them and competed quite easily in the ranking of the most beautiful of their litter with Arianne, Tyene and her. This did not necessarily mean that she was not related to the others; as a matter of fact, the carnal closeness she had with Nym, she also maintained it with Arianne and Tyene. As for Sarella, the latter was her best friend, in spite of the fact that they had never been physical despite their same age.

But there was something a bit more with Nym. A complicity that had set in naturally and which had convinced her, at the dawn of her puberty, to let her elder cousin familiarise her with the pleasures of the flesh in the same way that Arianne and Tyene had discovered each other. _Perhaps this is our common Valyrian heritage. My dragon's blood must surely resonate with hers. The Blood of Old Valyria and the Old Blood of Volantis._

“What would our uncle say if he were to see you?”

She and Nymeria quickly parted at the hearing of a third voice, wiping just as quickly the thread of saliva that had for a brief moment connected their mouths. Sarella was standing there and watching them with amusement. And as she and her six year older cousin stood up, Rhaenys at least had the decency to look embarrassed. Nymeria, not really.

“The answer is simple, little sister.” she exclaimed in the same ironic tone. “He wouldn't say anything. He'd be too shocked to say anything.”

Sarella's laughter was less crystalline than Nym's, but the sincere ones were easier to get. _Sarella is the most easy-going of all of us._

Sarella Sand, cousin of the same age, hadn't changed much except for her height. But she still had those beautiful, distinctive black eyes, that fascinating ebony-tinged skin and dense, frizzy, curly hair that reflected her heritage as a summer islander girl.

“If he didn't suspect anything to begin with.” then added Nym in a more cryptic way. “Given the time he spent watching us at the Water Gardens, I would doubt his qualities as the Reigning Prince of Dorne if he didn't know what was going on there. Besides, Arianne and Tyene are too conspicuous, and Garin talks too much. Everyone knows who has polished his cock at the end of every moon.”

Now Sarella was laughing openly. And since she was one of those who had granted her most pleasant favours to the handsome but no less talkative boy of the Greenblood, it was quite understandable. Doran must surely have heard more about the ebony Sand Snake than he should have. Sarella's laughter was contagious, as she ended up joining her and Nymeria after her.

Sarella finally approached them and the three of them hugged each other, between laughs and kisses.

“What a pleasure to see you both again, it's been too long.” Sarella said after separating from them.

“We missed you too, Sary.” she replied cheerfully.

Two years earlier, during the sixth moon, just after their twelfth birthday, Sarella had left with her mother. She had gone to discover her mother's homeland, on the Summer Isles, across the seas. She had returned two moons ago, but although they had heard about her return and even her repeated antics with Garin, they had not seen each other since. Rhaenys had followed her uncle Oberyn to Hellholt with his paramour, Ellaria Sand, and Nymeria had decided to stay at Skyreach, the stronghold of the House Fowler, upstream from the Princely River. Given her repeated escapades with the Fowler twins, Jeyne and Jennelyn, Rhaenys had a good idea of why.

Rhaenys met her same age cousin's gaze and shared a brilliant smile. Sarella looked at her with curiosity and Rhaenys had noticed that the Sand had twice fixed her strand. People in Sunspear or the Water Gardens sometimes called her Shae Silver-Strand, because of her curious but no less beautiful side strand, as bright as platinum. The most distinctive sign of her Valyrian ancestry, apart from the delicacy and the finesse of her features and her silhouette, which she had in common with Nym.

The fact remained that they had both left each other as girls and were now facing each other as women. For she had grown up, too. A little too much for her taste, moreover, her breasts having doubled in size over the last six moons for obscure reasons, reasons that only the most enlightened observers in the matter would be able to explain. The attention she got from men was not always welcome. _Sarella wanted to be a maester before Uncle Oberyn revealed that the Citadel only allowed men. Maybe she would know. She was already the most erudite of us all when we were only twelve years old._

“And now, I guess we'll have to find Obara.” Sarella said next. “It's Arianne and her miniature court that will complain, under this sun.”

“Especially Spotted Sylva, I think. Well, if she hasn't died of dehydration yet.” Nymeria replied. “If I didn't know that she was a Santagar of Spottswood, I would swear she wasn't from Dorne.”

“That bad?”

“That bad. I travelled part of the way along the Princely with her, towards Skyreach. Before it branched off towards her family stronghold, I got all kinds of complaints. This girl is just like Arianne. She moans as much as she melts. But unfortunately for her lovers, I highly doubt it's the same in bed.”

Rhaenys couldn't help laughing at her elder cousin's half-bitter, half-mocking remarks.

“You'd better not let Arianne hear you when it comes to Sylva, Nym…” she warned half-seriously. “Sylva may not be Tyene, but Arianne will bite like a viper if anyone messes with her friends.”

“I would like to see that.” the young lady simply replied.

Rhaenys and her two cousins later moved away from the river. Rearranging her dress and putting on her sandals, the Targaryen princess quickly caught up with her two cousins. The two Sand had tied their horses beside hers, in the shade of a small hut built on the side of the sandy path that ran along the Greenblood from east to west. Water troughs were installed there for the mounts in need of rest of the travellers, which could easily be filled with the river a few meters away. And they served well, judging by the enthusiasm of the three horses which quenched their thirst.

They were three beautiful Dornish Palfreys that had been given to them by Uncle Oberyn. Those of Nym and Sary were in the colours of Dorne, their beautiful brown robes with the characteristic reddish tones of the Red Mountains horses. It was her mare, however, which often made Rhaenys smile. She still remembered the upset look on Uncle Doran's face when she was introduced to her on her eleventh birthday in front of much of their household. Uncle Oberyn's hidden intentions had been quite clear in offering her this mare; a jet-black mare, just as her precious kitten had been. _The colour of a dragon. I wanted to name her Meraxes… but Uncle Doran is right, it wouldn't have been very smart. A Sand whose mother is supposedly from Lys shouldn't name her mount after a Targaryen Queen's mount if she doesn't want to attract attention._

A Sand, for it was her name today: Shaera Sand. However, it was to Uncle Doran that she owed her new name. Uncle Doran had, against all odds, wished to sublimate her dragon nature at least to a point, and had given her the name of her great-grandmother, Queen Shaera Targaryen. A queen he remembered fondly, if what he said about her was true. A Targaryen name so unheard of and neutral enough not to arouse any suspicion.

“Shae?”

“Yes?” Rhaenys answered mechanically as soon as she heard Sarella call her. Her head was sticking out of the back of her palfrey while Nymeria, even behind, was busy saddling hers. “Forgive me, I was in my thoughts.”

“That is one thing that will never change. That and your pretty silver strand of hair.” her cousin said playfully, which made her smile. _I would never cut my strand of hair for anything in the world, to hell with caution._ “We'll be leaving now. Knowing Obara, she's probably on her way back. We'll find her on the way.”

And Sarella was right. After saddling their mounts and riding for a few minutes between the dunes dotted with tufts of grass and half-burnt shrubs, the silhouette of their eldest was spotted in the distance, galloping freely on the sandy path, harassing the flanks of her grey courser with her spurs as if she herself was being chased. Even the wind wasn't going so fast around here.

Rhaenys soon realized that Obara had not changed. She was still dressed in the same leather cuirass as the last time they had seen each other, and her thighs were even more heavily protected by a skirt made of boiled leather and bronze plated pteruges. A shield with bright bronze contours was attached to her back and a whip was rolled up and attached to her cuirass. As for her spear, the same one that Rhaenys had always known her with, it was attached to her saddle. _If a war were to begin today, Obara would be ready._

“Finally here you are!” she exclaimed in her imperious voice, charged with the usual disdain that Rhaenys knew of her. “Between you and Arianne's clique, our horses will all have died of dehydration before reaching Shandystone!”

“Perhaps, but yours will die before ours.” Nymeria answered without delay, which earned her a laugh from Sarella, always a good audience.

Ignoring Nymeria's sarcastic answer, Obara focused on her and Sarella.

“My sisters.” she pronounced, simply giving them a nod. “Happy to see you again.”

Rhaenys immediately noticed something quite obvious. _She doesn't look happy._

“Likewise, sister.” said Sarella.

“It's good to see you again, Obara.” she replied in turn to put on a good face, dressing her reply with a cordial smile that Obara would not have been able to give. The latter almost never smiled, and most of her smiles were usually only to accompany mockery and disdainful remarks.

Obara Sand was the oldest daughter of Uncle Oberyn and almost ten years older than her. Paradoxically to her seniority, she was the least integrated of the group. Whether it was because of her looks or her character - or both - Rhaenys had never really known. The fact remained that Obara Sand was not the most graceful and in that sense looked rather ungainly when compared to her sisters and cousins.

Not that they had much opportunity to do so, as Obara never spent enough time at the court of Sunspear or at the Water Gardens. From what Nymeria had told her - and when it came to secrets, Nym was the best at finding them - Uncle Doran had a part to play in this, because of their elder daughter's servile origins. _Obara is the daughter of a whore from Oldtown, who raised her in the same way... If our uncle has also made her understand that she doesn't really belong with us, that at least partly explains why she's still so frustrated._

“Good then. If it's not too much to ask of these princesses, let's hurry.” Obara continued. “I don't want to keep Father waiting any longer.”

Without waiting for an answer, their eldest sister and cousin ignored their reunion and spurred the flanks of her courser. The mount jumped away from their small group and carried the impatient Sand ahead of the path. And so they trotted away, following in the footsteps of the lancer woman.

“I really don't know how she can be so active under that sun.” Nym grumbled. “All I want to do is lie in the shade and bathe in the cool water.”

“And drink an amber wine from Jhala or Xon…” Sarella added dreamily. The Sand soon noticed their curious looks, hers and Nym’s. “In the Summer Isles. Some of the best I've ever tasted. I'll give you a taste when we return to Sunspear. I've had enough brought back so there'll be enough left over even after Loreza's birth feast.”

“You must have loved the Summer Isles, Sary. You always had a thirst for discovery. What was it like to set foot outside Westeros for the first time?”

Sarella looked at her for a moment, the reflection painted on her brown face, before concentrating on the road. Obara was visible in the distance.

“It was scary, at first. When the ship left the Planky Town, a storm came up and covered the sky with heavy clouds. The ocean was very turbulent… But it soon became exciting. I was like Princess Nymeria when she guided her ten thousand ships through the Summer Sea. We went from island to island. We even went to the Isle of Women, where our ancestors once arrived fleeing from Valyria and its dragons. You too, Shae. You would have enjoyed it, riding the waves.”

Rhaenys remained silent and tried for a few moments to imagine herself standing proudly on the bow of a ship, dominating the waves like Corlys the Sea Snake or Alyn Oakenfist. The two Velaryons had crossed the seas with their triremes and their mighty carracks, then returned covered with glory and riches. The first had married the Queen Who Never Was, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen; the second had married the intrepid Princess Baela Targaryen, his cousin. The Seas were their domain. _But I'm a Targaryen. Even without dragons, my domain will always be the Heavens._

“Perhaps one day I will accompany you and your mother, Sary. If our uncle the prince allows it.” she said. _Such a day will never come. Uncle Doran will never let me go._

“I would come too.” Nymeria said. “We could go to Volantis, to find my mother. On the way, we would finally meet yours at Lys. I'm sure Father would come too.”

“It would be wonderful.” she concluded, silencing the pain that was threatening to arise. The weight of the lie and the weight of the truth were a bad mix. _How many times have I dreamed of finding Mother and Egg at Lys? And Father, too. Too many times._

The sandy track along the Greenblood on which their mounts trotted gradually gave way to a more defined dirt road as the path moved away from the shore. Obara had already sown them, but none of them worried, for they would find the lancer woman further on, at their next stopping point, at the crossroads of the river road and the Dorne road.

The weather gradually changed as the minutes passed and began to count in tens. The warm but no less humid air of the arable land had indeed given way to dry and more oppressive air; behind her laid the region of Sunspear and the fertile mouth of the Grenblood; in front of her laid the two Dornish deserts: in the north, the rocky desert that covered the country from the Greenblood to the sea of Dorne; in the south, from the Greenblood through the Vaith, and then to the Brimstone, the sandy desert that earned Dorne its infernal reputation of defeating all the invading armies.

Eager to preserve her condition, Rhaenys imitated her cousins and brought her silk and lace shawl over her head, thus avoiding the overly aggressive sunrays and the grains of sand that tended to clump in her hair, eyes, nose and mouth while riding a horse.

The crossroads of the Dorne road finally showed up in the distance, a large, well-maintained and straight road, which linked the country from west to east following the Greenblood. There was a shelter there, bigger than the last one, and it did not take long before Rhaenys saw the straddling figure of Obara, surrounded by a handful of other mounted people. It took even less time for them to realize that it was Arianne Martell and her friends. Sylva Santagar, known as Spotted Sylva, was standing right next to her as it was almost always the case. On the other side, Rhaenys recognized the proud Garin with his green turban and his dark Orphan skin. As for Andrey Dalt, known as Drey, a little lighter in skin, as handsome as ever, he stood there calmly, guarding the back of his dear princess like a real Kingsguard. _But of a slightly more questionable virtue, the pretty Drey._

Arianne was easily recognizable, even from afar, because of the beautiful white mare she rode and had always been known for. If that wasn't enough, her elegant orange dress with the emblem of the House Martell : Tenné, a sun-in-splendour gules transfixed by a spear or; the long curly black hair that fell down to her bottom, her equally dark doe eyes and the deliciously matt and silky tone of her skin were enough princely signs to guess that she was none other than the sumptuous heiress of Dorne. Rhaenys soon noticed her smile, her beautiful black eyes focused on her. The special glow that emanated from her was explicit enough to bring a smile to the daughter of Elia. _Lecherous vixen. Her head is already filled with thoughts even more obscene than those of Nym._

“The cavalry has arrived, and it was about time!” exclaimed Garin with a boastful air as they made their way to the crossroads.

“Says the one who slowed us down because he was too busy gleaning Cedra's fruit.”

The spontaneous comment from Drey took the whole group by surprise, so much so that most of them couldn't fight the laughter. Rhaenys noted the surprise in Sarella's eyes.

“Are you not ashamed? You found time to put the innocent Cedra to bed despite all that we did at the Water Gardens?” she quickly questioned, but if she was disdainful or amused, Rhaenys wasn't sure.

“No!” the boy hastened to answer. “Well, it wasn't Cedra. It was Frynne… And I didn't bed her!”

“It's a good thing, otherwise we would still be waiting at Sunspear.” Drey said ironically before approaching her with a charming smile on his face. “And I would not be able to enjoy the presence of Shae.”

The young man looked her in the eyes with a respectful affection. Drey was the most courteous and sincere of them all. His open face, friendly features, matt complexion, and clear eyes easily accompanied his devoted and sensitive character. Where Garin was effusive, he was jovial, where Daemon was pretentious, he was confident. It was dear to his heart to succeed his father with dignity as Knight of Lemonwood, but he did so with all the subtlety of a young man in the service of the sultriest of princesses. It was not for nothing that he was Tyene's favourite; the time she spent not in Arianne's bed, she spent it in Drey's bed. And Rhaenys could easily understand her, after all Andrey Dalt was the only one who made her a woman when she was thirteen. From that precious moment, Rhaenys kept nothing but tenderness.

“It's nice to see you too, Drey.”

“Time is good to you, sweet Shae.” he said gallantly. “You are becoming more beautiful every day, and the contrast of your long silver streak on your olive skin never ceases to delight my eyes.”

Rhaenys couldn't help but giggle at the seductive words of the Dalt, and she had no trouble hearing Sarella and Nymeria doing the same behind her. Without ignoring the warmth of Dorne and its women, he still cultivated the codes of courtly love. Few would risk making a fool of themselves in public with a verb that was too pronounced, but if he could get a laugh out of them, Andrey Dalt didn't care much for it.

Before she could answer him, Arianne quickly came between her and the handsome knight.

“Come on Drey, it's not reasonable to monopolize my lovely cousin and make me jealous so early in the day.”

“Far be it from me the intention to upset you so early, my princess. If it suits you, we can always share.”

“This seems to me to be the most reasonable offer.” Nymeria hastily and humorously declared. “I would be just as upset if Shae were to be taken away from me as soon as I found her.”

If their attention wasn't so touching, Rhaenys might have pouted at the way they negotiated her monopoly. _I would know if I was a dish or a territory that could be snatched away. The Disputed Lands are on the other side of the Narrow Sea._

“No!” Arianne sliced, coquettishly. “I solemnly declare in my quality as the Princess of Dorne that Shaera Sand is exclusive to me for the morning.”

And the said princess jumped out of her saddle without waiting to occupy hers. “Princess!” she heard, recognizing Sylva's worried voice, as Arianne sat behind her, clutching her hips and burying her face in the back of her neck. She didn't even have time to really ask Arianne what she thought she was doing as Arianne had stolen the reins of her mare and was spurring her flanks.

“Forward, Sȳndor!”

At the sound of her spirited cousin's cheerful voice, her mare rushed off and they sped off to leeward in an instant. Sȳndor was her name. Jet black, like the shadows. Like the shadows must have been her name; and in High Valyrian, the native language of her family. Sȳndor for Shadow. _A dragon's name without being one._

She didn't really have time to worry about the name of her mare while Arianne was nibbling her ear. She had come up from her clavicle in a series of small, painless bites, leaving in her path along her neck as many small traces of saliva that made her shiver in the wind as small tickles that made her laugh.

“Shae, I missed you so much!” she pined in her ear. “Where have you been all these months away from me? How could you?”

Her cousin's talent for appearing dramatic almost made her think she was quite serious, but the way she groped her belly and rubbed herself on her back reminded her that she was still Arianne.

“A girl should follow her father to Hellholt and do her duty.” she replied humorously, imitating the way the people of Lorath expressed themselves.

“What is the duty of a girl compared to the love of a princess?”

Her cousin's sulky intonation almost made her laugh.

“A princess with so many eager cousins should not be so greedy.” she said, leaning over her shoulder. Big mistake, since Arianne didn't wait even a second before attacking her lips, capturing them in a kiss just as languid as the one she had shared with Nym less than an hour before.

For a moment, they forgot the road to Shandystone, where Uncle Oberyn, Tyene and Elia were waiting for them. They also forgot the members of their family group who were surely following. In truth, Rhaenys didn't even think of the wind that brought with it its fresh caress and the grains of sand that piled up in their shawls and hair during the gallop. _Is there anything sweeter than Arianne's pulpy lips?_

“A princess is too greedy.” she resumed when the eldest daughter of Prince Doran let her be.

“A princess is a princess.” the vixen replied delightedly. “To hell with Drey and his manners. I'm the princess, Shae, I always come first.”

“It's Tyene who is going to be jealous, Ari.”

“Now, that would be improbable. Tyene and I do share everything, after all.” replied the princess contentedly.

“Now, that would be annoying, for it seemed to me that I would be solemnly exclusive to you all morning.”

The laughter of Arianne rivalled that of Nymeria in melody. Her princely cousin became more tender and less teasing this time in her embrace.

“I missed you, Shae, for real.”

She had admitted this as one would admit a weakness, and Rhaenys knew that Arianne only took this tone when she wanted to coax her peers with their feelings. She squeezed her cousin's hands against the reins of Sȳndor and pulled her back a little. _Manipulative vixen that you are, but I wouldn't trade you for anyone else._

“The Water Gardens are behind us, but now that Loreza is born, we will all be reunited again at Sunspear. You shouldn't be so sullen. I'll be there with you every day for at least a year.”

Rhaenys felt her cousin's mischievous smile return during her reply. _You are too predictable, Ari…_

“That was all I wanted to hear.” she then confessed in her ear, as if it hadn't been obvious. “Oh, my sweet cousin, my sweet Shae, who cares so much for her princess.”

“If you keep fidgeting on the saddle, we are both going to fall off. Fall if you want to, but please fall alone.”

“You're so cold, Shae!”

“Funny, Nym said the same thing to me.”

Arianne let out a few little laughs without stopping to hold her tight. Carried away by the gallop of Sȳndor, and the wind in her ears, Rhaenys still heard them. When Arianne was happy, she laughed easily.

It was nice.

***

Their small group had followed the road northward, away from the Dorne Road and up through the sandy desert heights. The great dirt road which connected Sunspear to Godsgrace had given way to a succession of sandy tracks which crisscrossed between the red dunes and the arid rocky valleys. It had taken them a good handful of hours to reach a little more than half of the way, coming out of the shapeless maze of small rocky abysses and accompanied by the inevitable ascent of the sun of Dorne through the celestial vault. The great rocky plain in the north, where no life reigned, had thus opened up to them - and in the distance, the low-lying rocky massifs where the ruins of Shandystone were located.

Obara had finally caught up with them along the way and, true to herself, had thrown her grey courser to open the way between the rocks. The natural and agile running of the animal had shown them that the eldest of the Sand was used to this kind of exercise. Soon after, the rest of their group had finally joined them, and Arianne had finally handed over the reins of Sȳndor to her. She didn't get back on her own saddle, however, preferring to occupy her own and stick to her. Not that Rhaenys had been disappointed by her choice, for she knew that once her princely cousin had something on her mind, it was difficult to dissuade her from it; moreover, her attentions were more than welcome to make her forget the heaviness of the arid air and the relative intensity of the celestial star.

In the end, after a rough advance through the seemingly infinite confines of the reg, they reached their destination, as the top of the tower of Shandystone rose above the desert.

Uncle Oberyn, who was particularly fond of the place, had revealed to them that the fortified manor house and the irrigated galleries on which it was built had been used to accommodate the Dornish refugees during the wars of unification. Hidden in the desert, the red stone of its structures camouflaging it in the land of sand and rock, Shandystone had several times gone unnoticed by the invading forces of the Targaryen kings. Twice, the terrifying dragons of Aegon the Conqueror and Queen Visenya, Balerion and Vhagar, had been sighted in the sky without their riders noticing the presence of the well. A true miracle, it was assured, for to avenge their dead sister, the two dragon lords would undoubtedly have reduced this place to ashes, sparing no woman or child, as they had done so much before in many places in Dorne. _To avenge Mother and Egg, what would I have done under the same conditions? Probably just as much._

The site had sheltered an old fortified well at the top of the hill, and its overhanging view made it possible to watch the expanses of the reg from dozens of leagues away. However, it had been a century now that the well had dried up and the place had been abandoned by its few inhabitants. Ironically, its abandonment corresponded to the unification of Dorne by King Daeron II, made on the occasion of the great marriage between Prince Maron Martell and Princess Daenerys Targaryen, sister of the king. It was as if the waters that kept Shandystone active had understood that they would no longer be needed, as the long-awaited final peace between Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms had finally been achieved. _They say that the people of Rhoynar were skilled in water magic._

Nature had thus regained its rights, the sand penetrating through the buildings and even covering half of the old well. Some rare vegetation such as sand ivy had sparingly colonised the shady alleys and walls, and old stumps of charred and fossilised trees were to be found here and there, dead for a long time, presenting gloomy and disturbing forms at nightfall and as many hiding places for sand vipers. For this was the specificity of Shandystone today: its vipers.

Sȳndor became agitated with a neigh as she spotted one that was gesticulating a few metres away. It was imposing and its red colour was covered with white rings; a venomous bite from this little thing would kill anyone in less than an hour, after a terrible and painful agony.

“Sȳndor, hēzīr aōle lykemās!” she shouted to her mount in an imperious tone.

Her injunction to keep quiet in High Valyrian immediately took effect and her horse calmed down without delay. Rhaenys soon felt the grip of her cousin around her grow stronger. It was obvious that her High Valyrian had not only reached her mare.

“Your Valyrian is even more melodious than Nym's.” her princely cousin whispered behind her back. “I wish I had such a tone when I speak it.”

Rhaenys kissed her passenger on the cheek with tenderness.

“I am from Lys.” she answered in a soft tone. “And Nym from Volantis. It is our heritage and our duty to speak it well.”

It wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't entirely false either. Had she really been from a Lysene family, what she had just said would have been a pious lie. The Lyseni of noble birth did not speak High Valyrian and had long preferred the Lysene Tongue instead. As for the Volantenes belonging to the Old Blood, such as the members of Nymeria's mother's family, while they spoke High Valyrian, it was no more than a ceremonial tongue used on specific occasions that were becoming increasingly rare.

In truth, the Targaryen had certainly been the only ones to preserve the tradition of being fluent in High Valyrian, but they had spoken it only among themselves. Her family was renowned for this, since they learned it naturally from early childhood and before they even spoke their first words in the common tongue. Beyond the erratic screams of her grandfather supplemented by his long sardonic laughs, this was undoubtedly what Rhaenys remembered most about her childhood. The voices of her father and grandmother as they spoke to her in the tongue of the dragons. _I didn't make much distinction between Grandmother and Mother at the time. They were both Muña._

Passing through the stone gate of the property and followed by the other riders in her party, Rhaenys crossed the hill and in a few seconds reached the manor of Shandystone and its courtyard. Imitated by Arianne, then by Nymeria and Sarella, Rhaenys set foot on the ground. Obara was already there and it didn't take her long to spot the other occupants of the place.

“Under the sands they hid, and then fangs out, they sprang. Mercy be on their prey, for at Shandystone, reunited once again are the Sand Snakes…” the only man in the host group cheerfully threw. It was none other than Uncle Oberyn.

His smile was contagious and Rhaenys sprang forward in great strides to hug him without delay. The Prince of Dorne laughed softly and enthusiastically gave her an embrace, whispering “ _sweet niece_ ” in her ear. She gave a small smile in his chest, the playful tone of the prince hiding nothing of all the good he thought about her. She could be his niece, but there was no difference in the love he had for her; she was his daughter in every way, _Elia's treasure_ as he used to say.

He released her not without giving her a kiss on the forehead and turned to Arianne who was waiting a step away from them. Surrounded by his waiting daughters and his niece, it was easy for Rhaenys to recognize the beautiful features of the House Martell. Prince Oberyn looked like his daughters and nieces. They all had the same fine, aquiline nose that he had, a pretty thing that people liked to nibble on, a typical Targaryen characteristic that the Martells had inherited from Princess Daenerys Targaryen. It was surely this Martell nose, actually of Targaryen origin, that made everyone believe that she was her uncle's daughter, despite the fact that her more marked Valyrian features, such as her high eyelids and forehead, set her apart from her “sisters” when one was more attentive.

“Sweet niece.” he repeated to Arianne, but this time in a playful and open tone.

“Uncle.” replied Arianne as she hugged him in turn while they kissed on the cheeks. “What a pleasure to see you again. I've missed your presence.”

“Then I hope to catch up on the lost moments, sweet niece.”

With a smile on her face, Arianne nodded with satisfaction and left her place to Nymeria and Sarella, who in turn took Oberyn in their arms. Unlike her, who had followed her uncle to Hellholt, her two cousins had not been able to enjoy the presence of their father lately. The reunion was as warm as Rhaenys had imagined. Sarella even threw herself at the intrepid prince, who had simply lifted her up in his arms with great laughter, making her swirl around him. _They had not seen each other for two years._

As for Arianne and her, their apparent remote position did not remain so indefinitely, as the thin arms of a beautiful but silent viper with wheaten hair and blue eyes wrapped around Arianne's waist.

“If I was venomous, I would have bitten you already.” the said viper blew into Arianne's ears as they both turned towards her.

The almost predatory gaze of Tyene Sand hadn't changed at all. Azure blue, but scruffy like that of a snake, she was probably the daughter of Oberyn who had taken the most from her father on this side. But of all the Martell daughters, she was also the one who had taken the least from the Rhoynar and the most from the Andals. Her skin was pure as ivory and her blond hair were light, its wheaten colour shining in the sun and lifting in the wind like a golden shroud. It was as if the Seven had infused a part of themselves when she was born, which was all the stranger if one considered her origins, since Tyene was born from a Septa.

“You do not have to be venomous to bite, as I recall.” Rhaenys couldn't help but mumble, drawing the attention of her ethereal cousin.

Arianne's laughter immediately took hold as Tyene approached her to give her a hug. Without sparing her a gentle caress along her back, her smile promised many things, but she welcomed her comment first and foremost with a contemplative silence.

“It seems that this tongue has become even bolder with time, little sister.” she finally pronounced. “We'll have to do something about that.”

“The same conclusion appeared to me earlier, Tyene.” Arianne quickly added mischievously before also coming to embrace her, as if to assist their cousin. _These two do everything together, sometimes without even realizing it._ “Isn't it the elders’ duty to discipline the younger ones?”

“That is indeed the case.” Tyene confirmed in acquiescence as her wandering hands added to Arianne's began to tickle her.

Of course, it was hard for Rhaenys to contain her laughs as her two older cousins indulged in their teasing.

“I'm not afraid of you.” she replied without hiding her amusement.

“You should be, for woe betides anyone who derides sand vipers and princesses without any fear of reprisals.”

The three cousins spent a few seconds like this before the third of the daughters of Prince Oberyn calmed down, remaining motionless in the arms of her younger relative. She finally laid a silky kiss on her right cheek and withdrew.

“It was about time for you to come.” she said, and then grasped Arianne's hand. “Father and Elia were getting impatient, and the presence of Daemon made things strange, especially since he heard that you were coming, Ari.”

Arianne's chuckle was quite equivocal. Daemon Sand, bastard son of Ser Ryon Allyrion, heir of Godsgrace, had been the only one to deflower Arianne. It had not taken long for the daring one to publicly claim it and ask for Arianne's hand in the name of their love for each other. Present at court on the day of his audacious attempt, Rhaenys didn't know what she had found crazier at the time: the idea that he and Arianne were in love, or the idea that the Reigning Prince of Dorne would deign to make a bastard his goodson. _Probably the phlegm with which Uncle Doran sent Daemon away without taking offence. Any other fool would have lost his head. Daemon was very lucky that day. That, and the fact that he's Uncle Oberyn's squire._

“It's not my fault if he really thought Father would give him my hand. And it has already been three years, that's a long time ago.”

“Not for him.” Tyene replied simply.

Arianne just shrugged her shoulders. Their princely cousin rarely ankylosed herself with superfluous remorse, especially since Daemon had been mistaken if he thought he could occupy more space in Arianne's heart than Garin or Drey. The former was her milk brother and the latter her childhood friend. The two of them set foot not far away, imitated by Sylva, and the three finally approached their group. Rhaenys easily recognized the complicit gaze shared by Drey and Tyene, but no words were spoken between the two of them more than modest greetings. Rhaenys obviously knew why. _Their reunion will take place later, in silk sheets._

With Sarella and Nymeria by his side, Uncle Oberyn came to join them after his reunion with his daughters. Obara stood right behind them, cultivating her usual seclusion. Smiling, Nymeria hastened to come and keep her company again. The informal and cheerful princely decree of Arianne's exclusivity had come to an end.

“If it suits everyone, then let us hasten to relieve your horses of their luggage before we join our vigorous little Lady Lance, who must certainly put my sad squire's lancers skills to hard test.”

Rhaenys gave Nymeria a mischievous smile at the nickname her uncle liked to give his fifth daughter, and Nym's discreet but perceptible annoyed reaction left her satisfied. “Lady Lance”, for this was how the Martell household had become accustomed to naming the young but impetuous Elia Sand, whose handling of the Dornish spear was beginning to show signs of virtuosity such as her father had shown at the same age.

All of them soon sheltered their horses in the shade of the stables of Shandystone, and soon afterwards deposited their many bags in the shady entrance hall of the manor. Rhaenys soon regretted the cool atmosphere when the group went out into the back yard of the estate, where the old well was located. In spite of the daylight hours and the descent of the sun, the heat of the area was still quite suffocating. And it was on this heat that they joined Daemon Sand and her young cousin, as they practiced spear training in the overwhelming light of day; how they were able to do this, Rhaenys had no idea.

Elia was impressive with the spear in her hand, as always. She wasn't ten years old, but she looked like twice that age because she was so talented. It was an arcade show to watch her as she spun around as much as she did around Daemon Sand. The latter seemed to be struggling to contain her as they exchanged blows and thrusts, the little viper waving like Princess Nymeria Martell in the battle against the Dornish kings.

Uncle Oberyn dedicated a substantial amount of time to weapons training for each of his daughters as they came of age. Obara had embraced his teachings as a religion and had made the use of the Dornish spear her mantra. Nymeria had specialized in the arts of the dagger and Sarella had preferred archery to them. Rhaenys doubted that any of the three had the same potential to wield the spear as the impetuous Lady Lance. Obara could have physical strength, but Elia was as agile in body as she was virtuoso with her hands. Tyene, meanwhile, had abandoned all martial arts to concentrate on poisons, another of her father's specialties.

For good measure and to hide the fact that she was the daughter of Elia, Uncle Oberyn had also taught her how to fight; she had soon enough ended up preferring swords to spears, already fantasizing herself as Visenya brandishing Dark Sister. However, despite the time spent wielding a sword, Rhaenys had to admit the reality: she would never be a fighter any more than she was a princess, and since she had no interest in poison, she would make a poor poisoner. From her father, the prince, she had drawn only the skill of her fingers on the strings of a harp. That, she could do, even to the point of stirring up her cousin's childish jealousy. _Arianne may be better on the viol, but she will never surpass on the harp and on vocals the daughter of Rhaegar._

“I think that's enough for today.” announced the Red Viper as they approached the two young fighters. The girl and the squire stopped immediately and turned to them, the first one smiling, the second one relieved.

“Father! Sisters! Princess!” the first exclaimed immediately, recognizing them all with a huge smile on her face. In an instant, Lady Lance, dropping her dornish spade, approached them with a light step, allowing Rhaenys to look at her as she greeted them in turn.

Elia Sand looked like Mother, from what her uncles and the people of Sunspear often said. She was the first of the daughters of Uncle Oberyn with his paramour Ellaria Sand, born after the rebellion: a child born of love, bastard but desired; welcomed in bliss into the bosom of Dorne. Her uncle had named her after her mother, and the little Sand had done more than take the name of her missing aunt to believe him. Rhaenys was powerless to confirm this, alas. _I have not remembered Mother's face for a long time. Father's, yes, but not Mother's._

What was clear, however, was that Elia looked a lot like her father. She had combed her dark, smooth hair the same way Nymeria had, in a long braided ponytail that let her peers appreciate the delicate features of her light-skinned, Martell-shaped face. Her eyes, however, were not purplish like those of Nym or cerulean like those of Tyene, but onyx black like those of Oberyn and Doran. _Like those of Mother._

“Hello, Shaera.” said the young Sand in a slender voice.

Rhaenys took her in her arms with a big smile on her face. Elia could be formidable with a spear in her hands, but she was no more than a little girl once she laid down her weapon. The very incarnation of a little sister that one loved to cuddle.

“Hello to you, Elia.” she whispered to her before resuming. “Have you been a good girl during my absence?”

“Of course I have. I even helped Daemon with his squire duties.”

On their left, Rhaenys noted the approach of the mentioned and his hesitant greeting to Arianne, while the latter was talking to Uncle Oberyn and Tyene. He seemed almost penitent, which did not surprise Rhaenys, given his past record with her sulphurous princely cousin. A few yards away, it was Nymeria who performed her social character, animated with grand gestures and laughter, probably to tease Obara, judging by the irritated look in the latter's eyes. As for Garin, Andrey and Sylva, they stood behind their princess and listened to the cheerful discussion she was having with her uncle.

“It's your big day, you know? I hope you're ready for tonight.” she said, replacing a single strand of her younger cousin's dark hair behind her right ear.

The anticipatory expression of Lady Lance was enough to let her know she was. In fact, the presence of all of them in the estate of Shandystone was not anodyne: today, Elia Sand was becoming a Sand Snake.

“Obara told me I was ready… I will live up to your expectations, Shaera.”

 _I have no doubt_ , she thought as she ran her hands through the hair of her intrepid younger cousin. If she and Sarella were able to do it, then so could Elia. _Besides, it won't be as terrible as Obara tells her._ _Obara thinks she only scares little girls, but Obara scares everyone._

At that moment, her uncle, Tyene and Arianne approached them, followed by the rest of the group. The first one took the floor in an enthusiastic tone.

“I think we have enjoyed this scorching sun enough.” her uncle exclaimed, imitating her gesture of brushing the hair of his daughter with his hand.

“Uncle Oberyn speaks truly.” Arianne continued. “I long for a silky banquet bed and a delicious Arbor Gold.”

“I'm afraid we have no such wines here, Arianne. Strongwine perhaps, sour vinasses such as that brown Smokeberry that Obara certainly enjoys.” replied Nymeria with an amusement proportionate to her elder sister's displeasure at her quip. “We warned you that Shandystone was not a luxury place.”

“The Strongwine will be welcome, then…” hesitated to answer the Princess, addressing a slightly embarrassed glance at Obara.

“That sounds promising, sweet niece.” Oberyn continued, clapping his hands as if to give the kick-off. “And this, while we enjoy Shaera's harpist fingering and delightful voice. What do you think, _sweet daughter_?”

The expression of Arianne at their uncle's cheerful reply turned out to be sulky and Rhaenys could not contain her sneer, haranguing a teasing and provocative smile at her. She would make sure that Arianne would forget her jealous and childish discontent later, as the silver strings of the grand harp in the banquet hall of Shandystone would vibrate under her nimble fingers. _Like those of Father._

“That suits me, _Father_.”

***

The burning sun of Dorne had begun to decline and had hidden behind the flat desert horizon during the hour of the bat. The hour of the eel had seen the clouds gradually lose their pink and crepuscular tones and turn an ever darker night blue. The star of Nymeria, white and incandescent, had then appeared, followed by the milky and ethereal strip that the Dornishmen enjoyed imagining to be her ten thousand ships. Announcing the hour of ghosts, the constellation of the Stallion, whose shape resembled that of a rearing stallion, had risen into the heavens, followed by that of the Ice Dragon, shearing the night from its extended body, its muzzle of white stars and the two blue stars representing its eyes pointing north. At Shandystone, where the stray lights that one was accustomed to see rising from the shadow city of Sunspear did not exist at all, the night sky of the desert of Dorne was as starry as it was dark.

The distant desert, usually red and ochre, had reversed its tones, giving the sands and rocks the appearance of the ocean and its waves. The moon, ethereal and sparkling like the Maiden, applied through its radiance a shroud that became almost palpable through the shapes of the dunes. No mirage caused by the baking solar aggressions would have delivered such impressions; here under the stars, beauty alone was overwhelming, while the great silver dunes of the night stretched before them.

Obara had been the first of them to descend, Rhaenys noted as she reached the courtyard of the mansion. The eldest of her cousins stood in wait as if the night had restored her senses, while her dark eyes shone in the selenite light. When the colours faded with the coming of evening, it was at that moment more than any other that one could guess the filiation of the first-born of the Sand Snakes: her reptilian glimmering eyes could be perceived in the reflection of the stars exactly the same way as those of her sisters and their father.

It was a good opportunity to push such a similarity, because far from bringing out her virile qualities through heavy armour, Obara had put on a Myrish dress of the same kind that all the Martell cousins liked to wear. It was blue and slight, going down to her ankles and fittingly shaped to her hips and breasts. Obara was certainly not the most beautiful of her cousins, but Rhaenys clearly thought that she would benefit from assuming her feminine features, for she was not the most hideous of women either. _But she still has to deign to let go of her servile origins._

After them, Nymeria and Arianne were the next to join the courtyard. While the first provoked no reaction from their elder sister and cousin, the second provoked a visible reaction of disdain from Obara. She did not do so vocally, but from where she was, it was easy for Rhaenys to spot her silent but bitter protest. The initiation ritual of the Sand Snakes should remain between Sand Snakes, at least that was what the lancer woman had proclaimed, in vain, their cousin being the princess of Dorne. And if the Princess of Dorne wanted, the Princess of Dorne got. Not that a single other Sand Snakes had protested Arianne's desire to follow her cousins, and Rhaenys the last. She was no more of a Sand Snake than Arianne, after all.

Nymeria and Arianne were barely deviating from their usual looks. For the occasion, the dark blue colour of the night had replaced the usual shimmering tones of their Myrish dresses, Nymeria having left out the golden tones expressing her Volantenes filial origins, while Arianne had left out the bright orange and red sun of the Martell coat of arms. Like her and Obara, the two cousins wore the traditional Dornish headdress: a cotton scarf, wrapped around their heads and tightened at the forehead by an agal, allowing the fabric piece to cascade over their shoulders. Their shades of blue seemed almost indigo under the stars, evoking her father's eyes. _Dark and indigo, like a thousand amethysts reflecting the moonlight_ , she remembered.

Sarella then followed, wearing the same outfit as all the others, but with a bluish-toned silk shawl with silvery sequins and slightly transparent. Rhaenys realized that she was holding four more shawls in her hands, and that she was going to give it to them. “The night could be cold.” she said in a whisper to Arianne, who was the first to grab one to cover herself with. Nymeria imitated her and Obara resolved to do so after some brief reflection. Sarella came to hand her the last one with a smile and a wink, and Rhaenys covered herself with it without further thought. Sarella had been right: the veiled fabric was as silky as it was warm.

Finally, Tyene and Elia showed up, the latter trying as best as she could to shake the sleep out of her pretty black eyes. They were already prepared and dressed, wearing the same robes and already covered with the same shawls.

“Are we all here or should we wait for impromptu guests?” Obara asked curtly.

Rhaenys realized that she was talking to Arianne, but Arianne shrugged her shoulders with an almost childish phlegm as she sometimes knew how to display it so well: provocative without being openly so, all in relative indifference. But Obara had received her answer, and Arianne would not be outrageous about it. The Martell knew, of course, that the ceremony of passage had meaning for the daughters of Oberyn. They could accept the presence of their cousin, who shared the blood of Nymeria just as they did, but no one else.

“In that case, let's go. We'll have to gallop for a while before we reach the Altar of Dawn.” Obara declared.

Saddling their mounts in the silence of the night, a singular atmosphere reigned in the air, full of apprehension and complicity. Arianne's gaze was playful and mischievous; she had fun even in the silence as she watched her cousins. As for Elia, she had already come back to life, concentrated as she was on her task, her eyes filled with a characteristic youthful excitement. After a few minutes they left all seven together, without uttering a word, and the steady pace turned into an impetuous race through the dark dunes and the scattered rocks, as they headed north.

The horizon was perceptible and invariable, offering an almost lunar landscape, a succession of dunes in the distance which transformed the desert into an ocean of restless swells. Their horses had no trouble moving through space, their frantic galloping raising clouds of sand in the air as they followed each other twenty feet apart. Being fifth in line, Rhaenys could barely perceive the first ones, certainly Obara and Nymeria, whose silhouettes were intermingled with shadows, sometimes disappearing beyond the dunes. Elia was right in front of her, and Arianne right behind her. It was Tyene who closed the march.

Soon, the dunes and arid plains of Shandystone were replaced by the slopes and dales of the desert, while the sound of sand pressed down by the hooves of Sȳndor became more and more stony. The moon disappeared under a cloud, plunging the surroundings into a darkness that made their advance almost perilous. But Rhaenys was able to spot Elia and watch her progress; should she deviate from the path, it would be her job to catch up with her and put her back on it. Tyene would do the same with Arianne if the Princess of Dorne ever lost sight of Sȳndor.

Another few minutes passed, certainly about fifteen, and the dales gave way to the plains once again. But this time a huge and growing shadow ran in the distance, the shadow of the rocky cliffs with their labyrinthine abysses. The moon then reappeared, illuminating the steep heights with all its pomp, before Rhaenys noticed Obara in the distance reducing her pace. In a few seconds their column had filled its spaces as they trotted forward.

Then Obara set fire to the torch that had hitherto rested in her saddlebag and rushed through the dark passage in the cliff. Nymeria quickly rushed in, then Elia, and with the silent consent of Sarella, Rhaenys followed. She saw Sarella lighting a torch and following her, acting as chaperone to Arianne and Tyene, guiding them with her light.

The mazes of the desert were dangerous, and many had got lost in them and died of thirst or hunger before finding their way out. But at the corners of the depths, the daughter of Elia had little trouble spotting the confident advance of Obara through the labyrinth. Nervously, Sȳndor followed the silhouette of her cousin's horse on sight, illuminated by the glowing torch she was holding high above her head.

The walls of the passageway began to move closer together as their lines progressed and became almost suffocating. Their group descended into the depths of the earth, the starry ceiling that appeared over the crevasse becoming more and more tenuous; the natural light of the moon had become anecdotal, if not non-existent, while the unstable light of the torches of Obara and Sarella drew their shadows on the rock. Sometimes the uneven cavities of the maze made them monstrous, giving them serpentine claws and fangs and tails. The moment seemed like eternity to her.

Then they came out, the passage leading to a huge circular open-air cavity that looked like some kind of arena, courtyard or antechamber. Judging from the cave dwellings scattered along the walls, which could be identified by the small stairs leading to the overhanging entrances and windows, Rhaenys had always assumed that it was a courtyard. Further down the courtyard, at the far end of it, stood a large gate at least six feet high, of rough and angular construction, carved out of the rock and richly decorated with pictorial patterns and strange glyphs.

Like the rest of the site, nothing in its simple, square architecture was reminiscent of Dorne and Rhoynar, whose architects preferred round, bulbous, and elongated forms; the gate itself differed from everything else in that its frame and stone hinges were dark, oily, and supernatural in appearance. At night, as now, the stone reflected the darkness, evoking a strange and disturbing feeling, but Rhaenys remembered that by day the material was dull and inert, as opaque as coal, and reflected nothing.

“This is the Gate of Dawn. The altar is behind it. This is where the ceremony will take place.” Obara proclaimed to Arianne and Elia, as they all dismounted and approached the huge gate.

Obara grabbed the reins of each of the mounts before Nymeria came to her aid.

“There's nothing Dornish about this place. It looks like nothing I have ever seen before.” Arianne said in a tone that showed a certain perplexity.

“Because it never was Dornish.” Sarella intervened. “This place goes back to the time when the First Men came to Westeros. From what I've read, the glyphs on the hinges are runes and the First Men used them before the Andals came.”

Rather than responding, their cousin ran her hand over the oily surface. The astonishment on her face reminded Rhaenys of the one she once had. The stone was just as oily to look at as it was to touch.

“What a strange stone… Is it obsidian?” the Princess added.

“I don't think it is. It seems that this door is made of the same material as the base of the Hightower of Oldtown or the ruins of Moat Cailin, in the North. According to Maester Theron, the Seastone Chair of Pyke is also made of this rock. He states in his book that all sites of the same kind were built by a civilization potentially predating the First Men.”

Rhaenys met Arianne's hesitant gaze and gave her a small smile. _Sarella often assumes that one is as erudite as she is._

“Maester Theron?” asked Arianne then.

“Ah! Hm… Maester Theron Pyke. He was an Ironborn, and the author of the book Strange Stone. He died a long time ago. His life's work revolved around this kind of stone.”

“I see… His life must not have been very exciting if he dedicated it so much to old stones.” replied the Martell smugly. “But I suppose that is to be expected, coming from a Maester who traded his desire for knowledge.”

“I don't know about that. I don't remember trading my desire for knowledge, and I still find his research interesting.”

Sarella had answered her in an amused manner, which prompted Rhaenys to come forward.

“You're a special case, Sary.” she said. “But still… I know that between Drey's cock and a book on rocks, I would choose Drey. The same cannot be said of you.”

The ebony Sand Snake gave a small laugh, quickly followed by Arianne and Tyene.

“Sarella is right though!” Elia replied, reminding them of her presence. “I too would choose the book! I don't see why I would choose a stupid cock. And I don't even see the connection between Drey and cocks at all, Shae. Mother told me this is more the specialty of the House Fowler anyway.”

The silence returned for a moment as they all shared a glance. Arianne was the first to give in to the laughter, followed by Sarella. It didn't take much more than the thin smile of Tyene, who twisted her face so as not to imitate them, for Rhaenys to give in.

And the expression on Elia's face didn't help their case.

“What did I say that was so amusing? Why are you laughing?” she asked offended, which only made their reaction worse.

Their younger sister and cousin's offended and confused expression gradually increased, so they tried with difficulty to control themselves so as not to hurt her ego even more. The touching innocence of their little Elia was a blessing.

“Nothing, Elia, nothing.” finally blew Sarella away before passing a hand through the young girl hair. “You will understand it when you're a little older.”

And somehow, this reply allowed little Sand to more or less soothe her nascent annoyance, so she didn't insist any further.

Obara and Nymeria joined them, and silence fell as soon as they noticed the canvas bags on their shoulders.

“The moon is shining.” Obara began. “And no cloud will end this moon-lightening for a while. Let's make the most of it.”

Sarella and Tyene mechanically acquiesced to the injunction of their elder sister, who did not hesitate to go through the big door. Nymeria winked at her before following the lancer woman, before being followed by the ebony Sand Snake. Taking Arianne's hand, the wheat Sand Snake took her soul sister in her turn in silence. Then Rhaenys turned to Elia.

“Are you ready?”

Her youngest cousin nodded vigorously, so she took her hand and they closed the march, entering in turn this place of forgotten memories.

The walls were dark, covered with glyphs referring to times so remote that it was difficult to pinpoint the eras. Children of the Forest appeared there, dancing around large weirwoods, the heart tree so dear to the Northmen, whose foliage covered them from all their expanses. Here and there, wyverns, basilisks, mammoths and giants decorated the great obscure murals, and the First Men, kings of this magical world, sat as masters and circulated among this bestiary of legends and monsters. And the Others, discreet, secluded, but recognizable by the great ice spiders they mounted. _The only thing missing from this fairy tale mural are the Targaryen and their dragons. We would have been Kings of the kings there._

Obara had placed several torches on wall torch sites as they passed, lighting their way forward and exposing more and more frescoes, some more gloomy than others, depicting creatures of the ocean: mermen, mermaids, squishers, selkies and even the Deep Ones of the horrific myths that Sarella liked so much, a marine variant of the Others if there ever was one.

Then they arrived in the room of the Altar of Dawn, which was named accordingly. It was a circular room, in the centre of which stood a rectangular black stone table, which contrasted with the walls and the polished marble floor. The black-and-white nuance strangely evoked the personification of death by the inhabitants of Braavos, but Rhaenys had never known whether this was a coincidence or a correlation. And above their heads, the room that turned out to be open to the sky had a wide view of the celestial vault and the moon, large and shining.

It was around this altar that they took their places, standing and waiting beside each other. Elia sat on her left and Arianne on her right. Sarella came to take her place on Elia's left, while Rhaenys did not miss Obara's annoyed look at Arianne when she had taken her place. Tyene was seated on Arianne's right, and Nymeria on Sarella's left. Obara was at the opposite extreme, while they all formed a circle. When they were smaller, and because of Obara's tales, Sarella and she had for a moment feared that they would witness a sacrifice. Elia had not been fooled despite the repeated attempts of the eldest of the Sand Snakes to intimidate her more than reason. _Elia is less gullible and braver than we were at the same age._

The scene still seemed impressive, even for her, when lit only by the half-light from the few torches placed further on, Obara took out of the canvas bags the ceremonial instruments they had all known before Elia: the obsidian sacrificial dagger, dark and opaque, threatening with blackness; the crystal chalice, clear and transparent, symbol of purity. Both objects had been richly fashioned by the hand of a great goldsmith, at least that was what she had always thought when contemplating them.

While Obara presented the two ceremonial instruments and placed them on the black, polished surface of the altar, Nymeria took two flasks out of the second bag. _The wine and the venom_ , Rhaenys recognized. The first rested in a large transparent vial. A white wine of Lys, a Lysilver, if the ritual hadn't changed. The second was in a smaller flask, its orange color showing through the glass surface all the more vividly in the glow of the torches. Only one substance had such a colour.

Slowly, Nymeria opened the vial of wine before pouring it into the chalice. Its translucent consistency could be seen even through the crystal. Then she placed it before Obara, who stared Elia in the eyes. The ceremony had officially begun.

“The blood of the basilisk.” she declared. “Aggressive and deadly. Orange, like the colour of our House.”

The eldest daughter of the Martells then poured the flask of venom into the cup. The wine was then gradually tinged with orange, the venomous and deadly liquid becoming diluted before their very eyes.

“A single drop causes a slow descent into the Seven Hells, a painful agony sowed with murderous outbursts. Blood calls for blood.”

Obara then grasped the dagger and held it up before the frightened eyes of Elia. Then she cut her palm very slightly. Blood flowed along the blade, then Obara poured a few drops into the cup.

“The blood of the elder.” she said, before handing the obsidian blade to Nymeria.

“The blood of the elder.” she repeated.

With a skillful gesture, Nym opened her palm and stained the dagger with her blood, from which she in turn poured a few drops into the chalice.

Slowly, a glowing cloth ran through the orange, like the sun-in-splendour on the banner.

“The blood of the elder.” Tyene whispered in her turn before repeating the same gestures.

“The blood of the elder.” followed Sarella just after Tyene entrusted her with the bloody dagger, and the blood flowed.

Elia's face had gradually turned pale as the time drew near. Sarella handed her the dagger, which Rhaenys resigned herself to take. Staring into the eyes of her younger cousin, she clenched her teeth and opened the palm of her left hand as skillfully as she could, ignoring the pain that the obsidian caused when it split her skin. Holding back a grimace, Rhaenys waited a few seconds, watching with morbid fascination as her own blood flowed over the blade.

“The blood of the elder…” she concluded, before she poured the last necessary drops into the crystal chalice.

The white wine was no longer. Orange and red, it seemed to be the blood of Nymeria restored. The blood of Ny Sar, the blood of the princes of the Rhoyne; mortal mixture, herald of a certain agony. And it was Obara who took the first sip.

“A sip for the elder.” she announced with an unfailing phlegm.

The blood glowed on her lower lip, the only proof of the poisoned drink.

“A sip for the elder.” Nym imitated her.

“A sip for the elder.” Tyene continued.

“A sip for the elder.” Sarella said in turn.

Each had taken a sip.

Arianne's fascinated gaze contrasted with Elia's fearful expression. Both looked at her in expectation as the cup passed through her hands.

The liquid still present swirled, the two thick colours intermingled. To Rhaenys, it was as if her Martell's blood and Targaryen's blood were fighting for dominance.

“A sip for the elder.” she repeated before bringing the cup to her lips.

The liquid ran down her throat, almost warm, but she didn't really know if it was alcohol or venom.

The ghosts, gradations of colour, and silhouettes appeared at once.

“The lysilver cancels out the deadly properties of the blood of the basilisk.” Obara resumed, but her slower formulation betrayed the effect that the venom already had on her. “But speeds up its absorption. And its hallucinatory effects. With a sip of this, we will accompany you, but this trial is yours, Elia. Drink.”

“Drink.” they all repeated.

Fear gave way to audacity and courage.

And Elia drank.

In an instant, her eyes blurred as her hallucinations began. She shoved a groan that came from somewhere else before contorting herself, while the now empty crystal cup slipped out of her hands and rolled onto the altar. She bent down and began to moan and groan in barely understandable words, holding her head. She did not lose consciousness, at least not at once as she had done, but she was as good as fainted according to her indisposed expression. “ _The snake… the poison!_ ” she moaned at one point, however. “ _The mountain, the mountain!_ ” She didn't say anything intelligible after that.

And while their younger one was hallucinating perhaps epic or nightmarish scenes, Rhaenys felt hers coming back as intensely as they had come to her on one of her worst nights of sleep under a full moon.

Scenes full of colour and dizzying perspectives.

Scenes of dances in the skies, where the sun vibrated with pleasure and freedom.

Scenes of dragons, as three of them, an Ivory one, an Obsidian one and a Silver one, contorted themselves in an endless struggle.

* * *

**THE PRINCESS OF DORNE**

“The affection that Ser Walter has for Shaera is so touching. I wish a man would love me in the same way…”

Sylva had accompanied her reply with a sugary sigh, distracting Arianne from the whisperings she had been having with Tyene. Her Dornish eyes, with their amber colours bordering on ochre and yellow, reminded her of Shaera's eyes. It was at their colour, however, that the comparison ended, for Shae's eyes had never been filled with such a candid glow. Nor did Shae have freckle-covered cheekbones like Sylva, who carried the name of her fiefdom up to her elegantly chubby cheeks. Spotted Sylva, as she was called most of the time, a nickname that was hard to deny.

As a matter of principle, Arianne nonetheless observed her friend's object of interest. Her cousin Shaera was not far away, towards the centre of the room, dancing in the arms of Prince Oberyn. There was in the aura she soberly radiated an intoxicating charisma, which at that moment was equalled only by the sensuality emanating from her body. For she was beautiful, Shaera, and above all seductive. And like so many times at social gatherings, men would turn around at least once to give her a look, if not twice. Tonight was no exception.

Father and daughter seemed so well matched, but the Prince's special affection for his fifth daughter had never been a mystery to any member of the Martell household. The few words Prince Oberyn had for the noble lady of Lys who had brought Shaera into the world, he compensated for it by mentioning how proud he was of their daughter. If she had misunderstood her uncle as many people do, Arianne might well have concluded that Shaera was born a princess, not a bastard.

“I'll never understand why Shaera ignores such a tender boy…” the Santagar added, poorly hiding the frustration that had made its way onto her face.

“Because she doesn't like him.” Arianne replied mechanically with some disinterest.

The so-called Walter was sitting at his table, surrounded by his own family, each one gloomier than the other. But nothing was gloomier than the coat of arms on the tablecloths at their table: Or, a human heel proper being bitten by an adder sable. The provocative coat of arms of the House Wyl, which traced the origin of their house and the odious snake pits over which they had the tradition of hanging their prisoners in iron cages, were they common bandits or Targaryen princes.

And Ser Walter Wyl, the heir of Wyl, the boy in question, observed her cousin Shaera in a manner that some would have described as obsessive and lecherous. This wasn't for lack of having been subtly rejected by her many times, for this man was nothing if not persistent and relentless. Everyone in Sunspear knew that Walter Wyl wanted to take Shaera Sand as his lover. _And everyone also knows that a Wyl, be he lord, will never be worthy of Shaera._

“How could she not love him? He is such an attractive man, with his wild hair and dark eyes. And he'll be a lord!”

Arianne shared a discreet gaze with Tyene, who stood to her right. Her favourite cousin just shrugged her shoulders in silence, as she often did. The taste of Sylva in men certainly didn't match theirs. In any case, Arianne knew that she would never take Walter Wyl as her lover and would never be as forgiving as Shaera, who let him court her, albeit reluctantly. Unfortunately for her bastard cousin, it was unseemly to publicly repel the advances of a lord and thus humiliate him, especially when one was a bastard, even in Dorne. Especially those of a lugubrious and dangerous lord like a Wyl.

“Attractive, Walter Wyl? You hear that, Obara?”

Attracted by Nymeria's voice, which had pierced through the ambient noise, Arianne watched her come and sit with great pomp at their side, Obara being with her. The latter had responded to her younger sister with a disdainful sneer.

“There's nothing to these counterfeit vipers but treachery and cowardice. Have we ever seen in Dorne or anywhere else a Wyl handle his own snakes? I don't think so.” Nymeria then said.

“And yet they are great lords of Dorne, coming from a prestigious house!” Sylva replied immediately.

“A prestige which they derive only from bloody kidnappings and their dishonourable opportunism. They're a disgrace to Dorne, that's what they are. It's beyond me, who could sincerely love a Wyl?”

“A goat.”

Spotted Sylva immediately took refuge in a sulky silence following the sudden retort of Obara. In reaction, Arianne gave a stern, dry look to her lancer cousin, but far from turning her eyes away, the latter gave her an acerbic gleam of defiance, before losing interest in her to observe the room and the lords and ladies dancing. As for Nymeria, she had watched the altercation with jubilation and seemed no more impressed by her tacit call to order than Obara.

It was no great secret that both Sand hated the Wyl for what they represented in the Seven Kingdoms. If righteous cruelty was a concept that spoke to both of them, the malevolence that referred to men like Tywin Lannister and his horrible banners evoked only a deafening contempt for them. And the fact that the heir of Wyl had been circling their sweet younger sister and cousin for too long was not to help their case. So Arianne didn't insist any further.

Moreover, although she was less clear-cut on the matter, she agreed with her cousins. For what she had observed of their constant whims at her father's court, the Wyls of Wyl were in no way suitable for courtship.

“Anyway, there are stony families more interesting than the Wyl.” she decided to intervene for the salvation of her friend. “Without wanting to take sides, I'd be much more relieved if it was Mors Manwoody who was courting our cousin with such enthusiasm, Sylva.”

“It would always be better than a Wyl.” Nymeria agreed.

The Sand drew unsurprisingly from the smiles of her sisters and a frown of Spotted Sylva's brow.

“I suppose…” conceded the latter.

After all, it was difficult to deny to the House Manwoody of Kingsgrave its prestigious reputation within Dorne and even outside. Princess Elaena Targaryen, daughter of Aegon III, had even married Lord Michael Manwoody out of love. Rather than a reputation of sordid and violent men, they had one of romantic and cultured, despite the strange and no less gloomy coat of arms so typical of the stony noble houses of Dorne: Sable, a smiling skull argent crowned or set with emeralds, rubies and pearls. They got their coat of arms, their reputation and the name of their fief from their relentless defence of their lands, in the time of the Dornish kings, against a king of the Reach of the Gardener Dynasty, whom they had defeated and killed in his attack.

Ser Mors Manwoody was also watching Shaera, but the way he looked at her was less insistent and gloomy than Walter Wyl. The Manwoody table was particularly busy, she noted, as some of the Red Mountain households were there and chatting with great enthusiasm. The Manwoody men were rather elegant, their clothes in colors reminiscent of the jewels of their coat of arms emerging in the light of the candlesticks in the great hall. Mors Manwoody, like his father Lord Dagos and his younger brother Dickon, was a member of the retinue of Prince Oberyn Martell. In that sense, they were acquaintances, even friends to many members of their household. _And therefore a thousand times more reliable than a stranger like that vile Walter._

“Shae might as well marry a Dayne.”

They all turned to their right as Sarella came to settle at the end of the table. She was the one who had manifested herself. Seeing that they were all waiting for her to continue, Sarella resumed quite quickly.

“Shae already looks a lot like a Dayne with her silver strands. She likes swordsmanship, too. She might as well be a hidden Dayne as it wouldn't surprise me, you know?”

Some of her cousins turned their attention to Shaera, but Arianne's attention turned to others. On the Dayne, who were sitting at their own table whose tablecloth shared its coat of arms between the coat of arms of their house: Purpure, a blazing star bendways surmounted by a sword bendways sinister argent - and these of the House Dondarrion of Blackhaven: Sable, semé of mullets of four points argent, a lightning bolt forked purpure. A noble house that originated from the Stormlands.

Arianne saw Ellaria Sand, her uncle's paramour, dancing further on with Ser Andrew, a knight of the House Estermont of Greenstone and cousin, against all odds, of the Usurper. Manfrey Martell, governor of Sunspear, a cousin of her father, was chatting on the fringe of the festivities with several representatives of the Stormlands noble houses, and Arianne recognized among them Lord Harwood Fell, lord of Felwood, and Ser Aemon Estermont, heir of Greenstone; another cousin of Robert Baratheon. Sitting at the side of her father Prince Doran, Lord Allyrion, Lord of the House Dayne, spoke in a low and half-worded voice with his suzerain.

This made her remember the reason for this great reception. For so many of the noble houses of Dorne and the Stormlands were here in her presence as the Crown Princess of Dorne; in the presence of her father as the Reigning Prince; in the presence of her uncle Oberyn and a large part of the Martell household. And this was due to two things: the birth of her younger cousin, Loreza Sand, and the engagement between Lady Allyria of the House Dayne and Lord Beric of the House Dondarrion, who were at their combined table, surrounded by their families. This was the first time since the rebellion of the Usurper that the principality of Dorne was involved in a major engagement with the Stormlands.

But even more unexpected than the presence of all these Stormlords in Sunspear was the presence of the same man who came at that moment to present her an outstretched and courteous hand. The same man to whom she had reserved the first dance of the Crown Princess of Dorne since the opening of the banquet.

“Princess Arianne, would you grant me the honour of your first dance?”

Ser Renly Baratheon stood in front of her and Arianne gave her a courteous and engaging smile.

“With great pleasure, Lord Renly.” she replied contentedly, before straightening herself up and grasping his hand with the delicacy and grace befitting a princess of Dorne.

She gave a discreet, proud and victorious glance to her cousins on the fly, and walked towards the dance space, the arm of the Usurper's younger brother held tightly against her. It did not take long for her gaze to meet the suspicious gaze of her father, who did not fail to warn her silently not to overstep her rights. And she did not fail in return to send him back a proud and sharp glance. _Arianne Martell, the rightful Crown Princess of Dorne, will be controlled by no one and especially not by you, Father._

In an instant, and as the young stag grabbed her by the hips with the assurance of a grown man, they began to dance before the eyes of their vassals. Renly Baratheon, presumptive heir of Storm's End. The future Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, if ever his older brother Stannis was left without a male heir. He was a very handsome young man, who was said to have taken on the same good traits as his brother the king: tall, with the most pleasant physique, with a true and clear look, and dark hair as Arianne loved it. Renly Baratheon represented both ends of the spectrum of men she liked: honest and fair in personality, serious when he had to be, but with a great sense of humour. He was charismatic, a bit like Drey, and above all, as should have been his bloodthirsty royal brother. _If he could have that glimmer of desire that all men have when they look up to me, he would be perfect._

“Many are the rumours that circulate about your beauty, Princess, but I must confess that they do not do justice to reality.”

“Thank you, my lord.” she answered with coquetry. “I return the compliment. Many courtesans who return from Storm's End attest to the charisma of Ser Renly. I cannot prove them wrong.”

“I am relieved.” he said with a big smile. “The thought of not being presentable in front of the Crown Princess of Dorne has horrified me since I left Storm's End.”

Arianne let a laugh escape her at the young Baratheon's theatrical line. Satisfied with her reaction, the young man displayed a contented smile. _He likes my laugh, it's a good sign._

He soon displayed a slightly more serious expression, however.

“You are not unaware of the historical enmities between our two kingdoms. Many of my lords left with sad prejudices and misconceptions. Some even feared that you might seek revenge on us during our stay for what happened during the rebellion.”

“I dare to hope you didn't think so and that your lords have since changed their minds. Our hospitality to the Seven Kingdoms has changed since my ancestor Maron Martell married Princess Daenerys Targaryen.”

The young stormlander looked at her for a few seconds with surprise when she mentioned her Targaryen origins. Unlike the Usurper, who preferred to ignore the ancestry that earned him his royal legitimacy, the Martells had always liked to remind people that they derived part of their origins from Aegon the Conqueror. _And that is not going to change under Arianne Martell._

“And they changed their minds. As for myself, Princess, I actually didn't think so. I've always considered Dorne to be a great kingdom, and I regret that my brother Robert has severed our ties with you in this way.”

 _By allowing my aunt and her two children to be slaughtered with impunity_ , she ventured to think. She had not responded mechanically to the young heir of the Stormlands, but her expression must have betrayed her as the latter presented her with an expression of condolence. Renly Baratheon was an attentive man.

“Trust cannot be restored without reconciliation and forgiveness.” he ventured to tell her with sorrow. “I know that one day my brother Robert will finally deign to acknowledge the wrongs done to Dorne and bring justice. I would have done it already, if I were the King.”

“But you are not the King.”

“But I am not the King.” Renly repeated, an embarrassed smile as an expression. “I am only Ser Renly Baratheon of Storm's End. I can only speak for the Stormlands, if anything.”

Arianne didn't respond and simply followed his steps, to the rhythm of the music and dance, observing the slightest of his facial reactions. If he was in trouble with a subject that was undermined or truly pained about what had happened during the rebellion, Arianne knew nothing about it. The only representative of the Iron Throne who sincerely felt regret and compassion for Princess Elia had never been anyone but Lord Jon Arryn. What was the value of vain words of support when all the Martells had wanted was to put all those guilty of this heinous crime to the sword?

Concerned, however, not to lose them both in matters that would lead to too much gravity and dissension, Arianne swept away any potential incipient enmity and uncertainty with a big smile.

“Anyway, the pains of the past are behind us. Today is a day of engagement and birth, after all. Tell me about yourself, my lord! What do you think of Dorne? Is the food there to your liking? Does the weather please you?”

“It's an absolutely incredible country.” Renly replied at once, while taking her along in a complicated dance step that drew a small laugh from her. “The weather is certainly better here than in my stronghold of Storm's End, for one thing.”

“Are there as many storms as they say?”

“And more, Princess, I'm afraid. And it's cold there, not like Dorne. Dare I say it's not a good land for swimming… unless you take the risk of being drowned in horrible typhoons.”

She chuckled at his cheerful reply.

“Even better, I don't have to put up with my sad brother Stannis here.”

“Sad brother? Why is that?” she asked.

“Ah! You would see him and you would understand.” he replied with a scornful laugh. “The very concept of leisure is foreign to him. The Stormlanders have forgotten the art of living and enjoying themselves under his suzerainty. He would be horrified at the sight of this feast, and the first to accuse us two of participating in debauched and meaningless practices.”

“Because we're dancing?”

“Because we're dancing.”

Arianne couldn't help laughing at the dead tone Renly took as he answered her.

“But that's absurd! We're just dancing!”

“Indeed, but go and reason with a Lord Paramount whose first edict was to abolish the brothels in each of the fiefdoms of the Stormlands because of depravity. The edict only lasted six months before an assembly of lords and small folk came to Storm's End to demand that he put an end to this law. Any more and we would have been besieged by an army of whores and their clients. As for the Stormlands, they would only have been called so because of the whining of men who can no longer empty their nuts.”

“So it was true? I thought it was just gossip! I have never heard anything so absurd in all my life, bordering on rebellion for brothels?” she exclaimed between two laughs, before resuming with humour. “Dorne must be a good change from the Stormlands, to you and your lords. No wonder they've changed their minds about our hospitality.”

The young man immediately followed her in her laughter.

He had a charming laugh, this Renly Baratheon.

“I'm surprised you're not already engaged. How is it possible, you being the heir of the Stormlands?”

“Presumptive heir.” he corrected her respectfully. “Alas, I will only be heir to the Stormlands as long as my sour and killjoy brother doesn't produce any. And it would be for me to ask you that question, Princess. Legions are the young men who would dream of being official suitors to the sumptuous Princess of Dorne, who is still not engaged, by the strangest of coincidences.”

“The young men, and even the not so young.” she said derisively, causing her partner to be surprised. “Alas, my father's plans for me stop at a list of dying old men whom I would see more as grandfathers than husbands. He doesn't seem to want to find the right shoe for me and prefers the dynastic alliances of my insipid younger brother with the Yronwoods.”

“I'm sorry about that. I'm afraid we have a most picturesque commonality in our fraternal relations. It will freeze in the depths of the Seven Hells before the great Stannis Baratheon of the Stormlands allows the poor Renly to marry now. Some would say I threaten his feverish hold on our kingdom. You must know what that is.”

Arianne wouldn't tell anyone, but she knew only too well what it was like to be seen as a threat by her suzerain; her father, who for some obscure reason preferred her stupid and useless younger brother and planned to oust her in favour of that vile frog. But as far as she was concerned, and as the gallant Renly Baratheon so aptly put it, the seven hells would freeze over before Arianne Martell let the fool Quentyn Martell rob her of her birth right.

They both continued to dance in rhythm, exchanging in the lulls of the minstrels a few words about the Stormlands or Dorne, and many other subjects that were close to their hearts. Arianne concluded that Ser Renly was an adequate suitor, sufficiently self-aware to never encroach on his prerogatives, especially since his position as heir of the Stormlands was not the most stable. _He would make a good Prince Consort of Dorne, as Mors was for Nymeria, if Father would stop interfering in my affairs. What would he do to upset me if he found out this time? Offer my hand to Lord Walder Frey?_

When the time for the first dances came to an end and the musicians who officiated for her father the prince retired, the two heirs parted, both smiling.

“It's been a pleasure, Princess. The ties between the Houses Martell and Baratheon should always remain strong. I hope we will have the opportunity to get to know each other better.”

“We will.” she assured him, with a smile that promised much more.

Renly's conscientious acquiescence frustrated her somewhat, however. For some strange reason, the young Baratheon seemed to resist all her apparent charms. Not once had he ventured to look much lower than her eyes. She was beautiful and very attractive, she knew it. _Then why?_

When she returned to her table, her cousins seemed to sneer with each other. She had seen them from the corner of her eye watching her as she danced with the attractive stag. Obara and Nymeria always had that teasing look in their eyes, the same look their father had when he was laughing at a poor victim. Sylva seemed embarrassed and didn't dare to look at her as she approached. But it was Tyene's gaze that made her suspect something, the latter looking at her with a gleam of amusement. _They are talking about me. What are they saying?_

“So, cousin…” began Nymeria with a jubilant air. “Is the stag to your taste?”

Arianne ventured to raise an eyebrow at the question of the Volantene half-breed. The question was expected, but she did not understand the nature of the tone she had taken. It was as if something was deeply amusing her.

“He's a reliable boy and a very interesting party.” she began proudly. “I like him. Witty, handsome and young. And he certainly has more teeth than that Rosby ancestor that Father suggested.”

Obara suddenly started to snigger and Sylva's face became all the more sheepish.

“Why are you sniggering, Obara?”

It was Sarella, looking neutral, who decided to answer her. She tapped her shoulder and drew her attention to the back of the room with a glance. Ser Renly was there, chatting with a few banners of the Stormlands and Dorne. Among them were Uncle Oberyn and his squires Daemon Sand and Drey's little brother Deziel Dalt.

“That's Ser Renly and Uncle Oberyn. What of them?”

“Look, Arianne.”

She kept quiet and did as Sarella asked. Before she knew it, she realized why her charms hadn't worked. For the charmed blue eyes she had expected to see from the beautiful stag, it was her former bastard lover who received them instead. Frustration took hold of her at once, like a fire being stoked by a poker, and for the first time that evening she felt foolish. She heard Obara laughing at her again, and then Nymeria joining her older sister.

“They say that horse riding is one of Renly Baratheon's favourite pastimes, but they have not specified that he prefers to be the horse.”

Obara's reply immediately triggered the laughter of Nymeria and Sarella, whom Arianne realized she had held back until then. Arianne gritted her teeth, not letting her cousin's joke get to her even though the humiliation was clearly present.

“I don't care, as long as he sits by my side rather than a dying old man like Rosby!” she replied, although her voice sounded higher than she would have liked.

As she feared, her cousins again shared hilarious glances at her answer, and this time it was Nymeria who replied.

“But if it is Renly, will he sit as the prince or the princess?”

And Tyene, that treasonous viper, to follow up with another thoughtful retort:

“Ser Renly isn't very pious, but they say he spends a lot of his time on his knees.”

 _Traitor_ , Arianne accused her silently, while the sisters of this daughter of septa sneered at her joke like the vipers they all were.

“That's enough, I won't hear any more. Stay among yourselves!” she said indignantly before getting up.

“Arianne, come back!” she thought she heard from Sarella, while the others continued to send their stupid jokes.

Arianne walked away and a sudden need for fresh air arose as she crossed the room towards the terraces. The Princess of Dorne was soon satisfied when the warm air in the banquet hall of the Old Palace gave way to the fresh air from the outside.

It was dark on the terrace next to the banquet hall of Sunspear, but the stars in the night sky did not appear very well, even from where she was standing. Far below lay the Shadow City of Sunspear, and at different levels of the city were the three great walls that delineated its surface.

The capital of Dorne was often in the shade during the day because of the Old Palace, so vast and so high that people used to think at ground level that it reached the sky. It was from here that the legendary castle of the House Martell took its name, Sunspear, while the Spear Tower of the Old Palace, one hundred and fifty feet high and finished with a steel needle, seemed to pierce the sun at its zenith, illuminating the earth with a celestial reflection. At this hour of the night, the sleeping Shadow City looked like a dark miasma surrounded by blue hills. And the Spear Tower, the beacon of Dorne by day and night, glowed with a soft selenite glow.

Slowly, the frustration that had gripped her heart faded away, but the bitterness remained in spite of everything. Sometimes, her cousins turned out to be unbearable.

_So what if my potential Prince Consort of Dorne prefers to swallow swords? I'd rather ride a handsome, docile gelding than a limp old mule._

* * *

**THE SUN PRINCESS**

The Shadow City laid out in the dark, punctuated by many small lights, those of the thatched cottages and the small lighted alleys that wandered between the dwellings according to the mounds on which they were built. The city had of that that it descended on a slope of a mile in length and that one saw its periphery below, in the distance, close to the beaches. Sometimes, as she watched it from her room in the Old Palace at night, Rhaenys thought she would see the past again.

The view haunted her, and it was even worse on festive nights when the city was bustling with activity. The glow of the festive fireplaces was replaced by flames and ambient noise, and diffuse music and laughter was replaced by trumpets and screams. In an instant, the sounds of bells would come back to her, the sounds of the cries, and the sounds of weapons. The city was on fire.

That banquet night was no exception. As predictable as it was unexpected, her anxieties had abruptly resurfaced at the bend of a balcony over which she had glimpsed the dark and urban distance. Losing her strength, trembling, she had gradually persuaded herself, despite her will, that she was wandering the corridors of the Red Keep in search of a bed to hide under until Father came to her rescue as he had always promised. _A bed under which I would have died._

Thank the gods, Uncle Oberyn had been there to quietly pull her out of the crowd just before she suffocated and began to create a scene of panic. Suppressing tears and nausea, she had obediently followed her uncle, who had taken her back to her apartments, where no one would disturb her, judging by the presence of the Palace guards at her doorstep.

And there she was, in the shadow of her room, sitting motionless on the edge of her canopy bed as thin embers crackled in the fireplace. The glow and sound of the small flames dancing in the fireplace had always soothed her in her worst moments of anxiety.

But more than anything else, these were the ones that reassured her. These two beautiful things, the last legacy of her blood. They glowed all the more in the flames, feeding off the heat and embers, or so she hoped.

Rhaenys approached the fireplace and watched them.

They were magnificent, like the most beautiful stones this land has ever known. Large and full, deliciously oval and colourful. Heavy too, like obsidian or diamond, and just as strong. But even though they might be unbreakable, Rhaenys had never mistreated them, always handling them as if they were made of glass. _The purest glass._

Her two dragon eggs. _My treasures._

The first was of a red as bright and carmine as blood, and motifs with orange reflections as elegant as the engravings of goldsmiths ran across its surface, like scales. It seemed to be made for her. The red of her sigil and the orange of her motherland. Targaryen and Martell intertwined.

The second was as deep royal blue as the azure skies of the Summer Sea, and gradations of black, the colour of kings, ran across its scaly surface in the same way that the orange ran across the red of its brother egg.

They were destined to them by their father, full of hope and dreams. The red one to her, and the blue one to Egg. To her little prince, to her beloved little brother... He would have been her Aegon, and she would have been his Rhaenys. She would have become his Rhaenyra and he would have been her Daemon. She would have been his Alyssane and he would have been her Jaehaerys. But he had died before he even realized the magnitude and the majesty of this world; of this world that would have been their empire.

All that remained of this missed life were these two hauntingly beautiful stones, whose metallic texture and appearance gleamed under the crackling of the flames. It was the only legacy that Lady Tyrone had been able to retrieve from the nursery of the Red Keep before their escape from King's Landing.

Ordinary people said that one could afford an army with them. That one could afford a castle.

But an army would never be enough and a castle meant nothing to her.

She desired a thousand times more than that.

She desired her kingdom.

She desired her vengeance.

She desired Fire and Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour, everyone,
> 
> Thus concludes the chapter IV of A Prince of Dragonstone.
> 
> The translation of this chapter proved to be the most difficult of the four chapters currently published. I tried to manage the adaptation work as well as possible, which required a special effort as this chapter contained a number of typically French expressions, such as “avoir la puce à l'oreille” (to have the flea in the ear), which therefore have no counterpart in English and means "to be suspicious of something". Similarly, I had to rethink and rewrite certain passages, such as Elia Sand's misunderstanding of the term “cock”; the initial passage, which played on the double meaning of “tail” in French, which can also mean cock, was untranslatable.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I am particularly proud of it and I loved writing about Rhaenys and Arianne, who are treasures. I already loved Arianne, I tried to create Rhaenys so that she would be as rich as her cousin. I love the sand snakes, and I especially love Nymeria, a real sniper. She and Obara gave me as much trouble creating as Arianne and Rhaenys, because of the richness of their sarcasm. But I am not especially a man with a great sense of humour. This chapter would not have been so perfect without the precious advice of my dearest Lexias, whose precision and inspiration were a great help to me in understanding what I wanted to do with the Martell cousins. I hope all the cousins (or at least some) managed to make you laugh.
> 
> This chapter also endorses a narrative change in the story, which I had initiated in the French version in the previous chapter, in Laena Velaryon's PoV, since I now integrate the characters' point of view into the narration, which offers a truer-than-life authenticity of their personality. This allows me personally to project myself more into my characters and I also imitate the way of doing of our very dear G. R. R. Martin to whom we owe this absolutely splendid work of reference. My way of writing and imagining the next PoVs will therefore adapt to this narrative logic.
> 
> The publication of this chapter IV also brings the English version completely up to date. From then on, the French chapters will no longer be ahead of the English ones, and both versions will be updated at the same time. For the English-speaking readers who are a bit too impatient, you won't need to go to the French version anymore, and anyway you won't be able to, haha!
> 
> Coming back to this chapter, do not hesitate to ask me any questions you may have, I am open to any observation and criticism as long as it is constructive and respectful. Feel free to review. In fact, please do review, I love it.
> 
> On the other hand, and to finish on this note, whenever you're interested in the Overwatch universe, I invite you to go read the story of my friend Lexias, which is narratively based on the Asoiaf format. His story starts but it is very promising.
> 
> On that note,  
>  I'll see you soon. Stay safe and take care of yourself,
> 
> Etsukazu
> 
> ***
> 
> Valyrian Vocabulary : 
> 
> Sȳndor, hēzīr aōle lykemās! : Right now, you stay quiet, Shadow!


	5. An Egg in the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction to Arya Stark. Fights, parties, discoveries, love issues and rivalry in the shadow of the high courtyard of Winterfell.
> 
> ⬇️ For any translation of Valyrian sentences, see the End Notes. ⬇️

**THE HIDDEN PRINCE**

**297**

As far as Jon could see, the thin summer snows that had fallen over the large plains of Winterfell in the last week had already begun to melt particularly well, with only a few traces of the cold remaining below, at the foot of the castle and down the mound. Far beyond this, the thawed and flowing summer waters of the Acorn Water reflected the warm rays of the sun while the river meandered long and wide across the country. The North seemed so small from where he observed it, as if it could fit in the palm of his hands. And at the same time it seemed so vast. But this was not surprising, as the ramparts of the south gate of Winterfell were so high that the relief of the Cerwyn Hills could sometimes be seen from miles beyond the Acorn Water.

It was a picturesque view, as the lively waters of the riverbed sparkled in daylight like a vein of platinum. They criss-crossed between the green, wooded and fertile hills and the winter town, and flowed southwards into the White Knife. But the wealth of the Acorn Water was in its salmons, not in its soils, and it was not the House Stark of Winterfell but the Houses Manderly of White Harbour and Locke of Oldcastle who would reap the tasty rewards, when the mature fish would descend by thousands into the waters of the Gulf of the Bite. Or was it what he had learned from the lessons of Maester Luwin and Father when it came to the economy of the North and its noble houses. But the true wealth of the North, he often thought, was revealed when one stood here as the sun rose and illuminated the vast expanses, as white and sparkling in winter as they were green and fertile in summer. Many times, the snow seemed to give way to diamonds, while sunny lights as bright as silver shrouds could be seen in the distance.

As high as he was, Jon was subject to the force of the wind, as one could only experience it here on the double row of the outer walls of Winterfell. Leaning against the cold stone of the ramparts and leaning across the battlement in front of him, he observed the activity below. As beautiful as the view from the north may have been when you contemplated it from the lookout points built by the Kings of Winter, it was far from being the most interesting today, while dozens of caravans from all over the north entered the castle, and a row of carriages, beasts and smallfolk seemed to stretch out as far as the winter town. Jon knew that it would take hours before they would be able to set foot on the earth and gravel of the barnyards of Winterfell and that by then they would only be able to see the huge postern and the imposing banner of the House Stark: the very one that was fixed and hung on the wall, in the right frame of the stone pavement that came out of the ground and led to the outside drawbridge.

The grey direwolf running over a snow field had not been the only noble coat of arms Jon had seen in the last hour. Several northern lords escorted by their personal horsemen and standard bearers and accompanied by their retinue had overtaken the caravan line and entered into the fortress without delay. Among the most extravagant processions, one had easily announced the presence of the House Dustin: Or, between two longaxes saltirewise rusted proper shafted sable, a crown of the last. Jon even recognised Lord William and his wife, Lady Barbrey, from the wall when he saw the personal coat of arms of the latter floating in the wind: Quarterly First and Fourth Or, between two longaxes saltirewise rusted proper shafted sable, a crown of the last; Second and Third Bronze, a horse's head sable, orbed and maned gules, within a bordure engrailed sable. He had not recognised the little girl riding with the lady of Barrow Hall by sight, but if he believed what Father had told him about the Dustins, it must have been their daughter, Lady Lyarra. She was the heiress of the House Dustin, despite the hopes of the old Willar Dustin, uncle of Lord William, who expected his sons to inherit Barrow Hall. _But Lord William is not sterile, and in the North, daughters inherit before their uncles._

The Dustins had been far from being the only noble family to have passed through the main gates of Winterfell in the last hour, while to the rusted longaxes of Barrow Hall had soon followed the many horse-headed banners of the House Ryswell of the Rills, as different from each other as there were Ryswells in the procession. In all likelihood, the Ryswells had ridden alongside the Dustins, or had followed them closely. With the exception of Ser Mark, easily recognisable by his imposing plate armour whose typical grey reflections showed his northern steel composition, Jon had not recognised any of them. Not that he usually could have, as the Ryswells would never leave their land if they could avoid it. Their full presence today was indeed a first since Father's enthronement as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. _Father often says that Ser Mark single-handedly compensates for his family's stay-at-home ways._

The next procession put a smile on his face as Jon spotted the Cerwyn sable battle-axe among the banners held by the standard-bearers. _Cley's family... He will be lord after Lord Medger, though it's hard to imagine._ To the argent banners with sable battle-axes were added the banner argent, between two tridents saltirwise an eagle's head gules: the coat of arms of the House Condon, a vassal house of the House Cerwyn. Not far away, Jon also spotted the banner Brunâtre, three sentinel trees vert, the emblem of the House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square, another large and vassal house of the North. This one answered directly to the House Stark. And with the banners, the carts full of food and livestock. It didn't take long for Jon to realise that the Cerwyns, the Condons and the Tallharts had spared no wealth for the festivities ahead. _No wonder, judging by the festive character of Lord Medger and Ser Helman._

“Hey, the swordsman!”

“Swordsman!”

Jon's gaze returned to the road as soon as he heard the shouting and guessed that he was the one who was being hailed. Only the Tallharts called him swordsman, especially when men like Ser Mark Ryswell or his uncle Arthur Dayne stayed or lived in the castle. And the sight of the big smiles and grins of Benfred Tallhart and his cousin Brandon only confirmed this. They weren't the only ones present, as Jon saw Benfred's younger sister Eddara riding beside him, while Brandon's younger brother Beren was riding with his older brother. _This one is the same age as Bran._

And beside them was Cley Cerwyn, who was waving at him from his horse.

“Hey, Jon!” he called out to him, a joyful smile written on his face.

“Stark!” Benfred continued. “Still perched like a raven on your walls in loneliness, I see!”

“It's always better than being in your company, Tallhart!” immediately sent Jon back to him.

He could hardly keep a smile off his face when he heard the laughter of Benfred's entourage at his reply and saw Benfred's grimace. Far from being offended, Ser Helman Tallhart approached and passed by his son in a great laugh. He was accompanied by his younger brother, Ser Leobald, and Lord Medger Cerwyn. The three adults greeted him silently with their hands and then entered the castle without delay, soon imitated by the rest of the procession. Eddara and Brandon joined the group, anxious to follow their father and uncle.

“See you later, Jon!” exclaimed Cley, before following his father and disappearing.

For a moment it looked like Benfred would imitate his own, but he focused on him again.

“I'll be waiting for you on the field, if you have the courage to face me!”

“You should avoid it, Tallhart, you would lose again!”

The grimace that appeared again on Benfred's face did not fail to amuse him. To provoke Tallhart's eldest cousin had always been particularly easy. And this was especially true of him since he had been given the opportunity to beat him with a sword in front of a number of the Lords of the North during one of the last exhibition trainings, despite the fact that Benfred was three years older and almost three heads taller than he was at the time. That was two years ago. Since then the Tallharts had nicknamed him the Swordsman.

“You're dreaming, it won't happen twice! I will have my revenge, Silver-Strand!”

Without waiting for an answer, Benfred pushed his horse forward and trotted away through the south gate.

Suddenly made aware of its appearance, Jon distractedly reached for his hair, and for his silver strand.

As the sun rose in the east and the pale luminescence of its rays reflected on the downy surface of the dawn snows, it was difficult to ignore its presence. For it was there, running in a fine line along his obsidian hair, and it shone in the sun by day as much as in the moon by night. As fortuitously as a vein of silver that had been excavated from the depths of the mountain, an obscure and unexpected discovery that opened up to wealth, his strand had appeared during his sleep on the eve of his tenth birthday. Most of his nightmares and eccentric dreams had calmed down since then, as if reality had returned to take its rightful place, and with it the bitterness of the truth.

Father had preserved him all these years of the said bitter truth, out of affection, out of concern to hurt him or out of fear, Jon had never really understood it. As for Uncle Arthur, the unsympathetic dimension of his personality had never allowed Jon to doubt that his bastard nature had never really interested the Sword of the Morning. Because that was what he was: a bastard. A Stark bastard. A Dayne bastard. Lady Ashara's adulterous son, they said. _My mother._

That was the answer he had always wanted as to why his 'mother' avoided him like the plague. The answer he had longed for but also feared so much. Jon remembered a time when he thought that nothing separated him from his siblings, that they shared the blood of the Starks and the blood of the Tully. North and South intertwined: the blood of the First Men and the blood of the Andals. He candidly thought that Lady Catelyn was his mother. No one had ever really told him, and he had never understood. The blood of the Tullys had never flowed through his veins, nor had the blood of the Andals. _I was small and naive._

He was a First Man, through and through. Just like the Starks, and just like the Daynes. He had the fair skin and dark hair of the Northern Starks, and the purple eyes and silver ears of the Red Mountain Daynes: Those whose books often narrated that they were Valyrians without ever having been. A family of the First Men of Dorne from a lineage at least as old and pure as that of the Starks.

But the truth today made him more confused than enlightened, as each passing day saw more and more questions arise in his mind: Who was really Mother? How had she and Father met? What had happened to them during the rebellion? Why had she kept him, if Father was married? So many questions that neither Father nor Uncle Arthur really deigned to answer. It was as if the weight of the past was still painful to bear, as if the slightest mention of Lady Ashara reopened wounds that were still half raw.

Jon had come to suspect that he would never get half the answers he wanted.

The abrupt and heavy opening sound of the fortified door leading to the inside of the south gate of Winterfell put a clear end to the silence. Jon immediately woke up from his dreams and saw his brother Robb pass the iron threshold and step out onto the guard level of the fortress gate.

“Hey, Robb.” he greeted him.

He immediately received a big smile from his brother.

“I told you Jon would be here, Uncle!” the latter exclaimed enthusiastically. “If you didn't spend all your time in the south, you would have known!”

“All right, all right, Robb. I was wrong.”

Jon was surprised when he heard the voice of the said uncle, and he couldn't hold back his delight when he saw Benjen Stark emerge from the building.

“Hey, boy!” his uncle exclaimed when he saw him.

“Uncle Benjen!”

Jon shortened the distance between the two of them so quickly that Uncle Benjen didn't even have time to continue. The next moment the Stark laughed and hugged him. It had been so long since his uncle had been seen in Winterfell. Maybe three years, if Jon had to be precise.

“Look at you, Jon.” Benjen exclaimed, moving away from him a little. He had grasped his shoulders firmly and looked at him with a laughing look. “You're almost as tall as me now. Soon a man.”

Jon laughed at his uncle's remark. It was true that the last few years had been generous to him. And with Robb too, for that matter. They were no longer the little boys who innocently dozed off on their father's legs, and this was especially noticeable when they stood beside their elders. They had grown up, but especially him. At one time he remembered being smaller than his brother by almost a head. But with his present five feet and six inches in height, he had finally caught up with and equalled Robb.

It was said that he would be taller than his older brother in a few years if he kept up his growth. What was certain was that he would be taller than Uncle Benjen and Father. The thought itself amused him.

“But how is it possible that you are at Winterfell, Uncle? I thought you were at Dragonstone!”

“I was at Dragonstone.” Benjen told him. “And then I came back. But I told Ned and Robb to keep it a secret.”

Jon immediately turned to Robb, who looked at him with amusement.

“Robb! How could you? You knew Father and you and you hid it from me? It's unforgivable!”

His harangue obviously provoked a laugh from his brother, who playfully ignored the threat. Jon didn't know whether he should laugh too or feel offended. The fact that they were able to hide his uncle's visit from him so easily was frustrating.

“Don't hold it against them.” Benjen added, but Jon could clearly see that he was holding back from imitating his older brother. “I wanted to surprise you. Well… I hope you like it.”

“Of course!” he hastened to answer before hugging his uncle. “It's been too long, Uncle! Winterfell is not the same when you are away.”

“Ah, that's nice to hear! Come here, you two!”

Benjen quickly put an arm around Robb's shoulders and pulled him in. The three of them sneered at their uncle's affectionate mannerisms.

“And to think that I was not able to attend your first hunt! Your father told me everything by message, you know? Apparently, your wander is known all over the North. Once again, the two Stark heirs have been messing around successfully, they say. The two sons of Lord Stark have the wolf's blood.”

“The truth is not as spectacular as people think.” Robb replied with a knowing look in his eyes.

Jon fell silent and remembered the past year. The wander that Uncle Benjen referred to was more due to luck than anything else. Their first hunt, if the term was appropriate, had been a bitter failure. He and Robb had unfortunately separated from the main group in the middle of the wolfswood. They had wandered for many hours in the blizzard.

While holding them both by the shoulders, their uncle invited them to begin the march back to the castle while he spoke again.

“And yet, rare are the young men from the north who are found with a dead adult shadowcat at their feet. Especially when they are thirteen years old. The wolfswood is a dangerous place.”

“We owe this trophy to Jon, uncle. If he wasn't such a good archer, we would probably have died that day.”

“Robb, that's not true, and you know it better than anyone else.” he intervened immediately. “The shadowcat was wounded and was limping. I can't take any credit for shooting it. Besides, it was your spear that finished him off.”

He was silenced by Uncle Benjen when he came to squeeze his shoulder with his right hand following his answer.

“Don't be so modest, nephew. Your brother compliments you, he doesn't flatter you.” he said in a complicit tone. “Ah… It reminds me of my brother Brandon, you know?”

Their Uncle Brandon; the one who had gone to defend the honour of their aunt Lyanna in King's Landing and who had threatened Prince Rhaegar before the Mad King.

“He always told me to never be modest, that the Starks are sons of kings and will always be so even without a crown. He clearly lived by his words, my dear brother. Of course, I am not suggesting that you should be like him, far from it. But don't deny your accomplishments, Jon. Pride when deserved is not a vice. Especially for a Stark.”

 _But I am not a Stark_ , he thought to reply. A few years ago, in the darkest days of the period, when Father had chastised Lady Catelyn for her blunder through indifference, Jon remembered that he would have said so mechanically, as if to make amends. Robb had even gradually turned away from him for a while, preferring him the more assertive presence of Theon Greyjoy, four years their senior. Brought in as a hostage of the House Stark in the name of the king, Father had made him his ward. Jon sometimes thought that Theon belonged more to Winterfell than he did. _Who is the Stark to whom we prefer a Greyjoy? A Snow._

The look on his uncle's face made him realise that he had understood the nature of his thoughts. Jon recognised that he was not the most difficult to read when one got to know him.

“Lord Jon Stark of Dragonstone!” his uncle suddenly exclaimed. “Ah, isn't this a young man whose exploits will be remembered for the next ten thousand years?”

“Stop it uncle, this is ridiculous.” he replied without delay. The idea that he would be remembered for so long was at best improbable. “I'd be lucky if Jon Snow was remembered for more than a hundred years.”

“Jon Stark, brother.” insisted Robb. “Stark.”

Robb's tone of voice made him understand that he would not budge. Jon looked at him for a few moments and couldn't suppress a pale smile for long. Against all odds, Robb was always the first to take offence when someone called him Snow, whether by mistake or out of proven disdain. In the second case, to the correction was often added an angry admonition.

“Don't listen to what people may say.” continued Uncle Benjen. “You're a Stark. The king's blood flows through your veins. By legitimizing you, the king is only giving you back what is rightfully yours.”

Benjen opened the door to the footbridge that connected the two outer walls. They advanced a few steps, letting the dizzying view of the moat below seize them. What the northerners called the 'in-between walls' was one of Westeros most impressive works of engineering. Winterfell was the only fortress on the continent to have a wall consisting of two huge circular walls running parallel to each other. The second wall was higher than the first, with watchtowers and turrets all around its perimeter; between the two walls laid a frightening, vertiginous moat which you would never climb if you fell into it. Below, Jon could see the two drawbridges of the south gate, lowered and connected, which connected the inside of the castle to the outside in a balanced manner. Apart from the Eyrie, no other fortress was as well defended as Winterfell.

“Jon?”

Uncle Benjen's voice brought him back to their discussion, so he turned away from the void for a few seconds.

“It's not a given, Uncle. The king, the people say he is of an inconstant nature. He can always change his mind, and I will remain Snow.”

“You're really defeatist.” replied the adult. If he thought that was a reproach, the smile on the Stark's face helped him to believe that it wasn't. “If the king wanted to change his mind, he would have done so long ago and would never have allowed me to assume the regency of Dragonstone. Believe me, nephew.”

 _Perhaps_ , he ventured to think. He wanted to believe his uncle. He ardently wished so. But every time, something was dissuading him, as if to prepare him for defeat.

Lord Jon Stark of Dragonstone: that was what he would be called, or that was what Father and Uncle Arthur were preparing him to be. For he would be the lord of Dragonstone, the guardian of the Narrow Sea, the undisputed master of an entire suzerain region, having as his lord none but the King. The decision had been taken when he was just an infant, barely out of his mother's womb.

He had only really become aware of his inheritance when his father returned after the Greyjoy Rebellion, but he often thought that it was all an illusion. The enmity maintained by Lady Catelyn and her retinue or the disdainful rivalries maintained by Theon Greyjoy and some of the Northern heirs such as Benfred Tallhart had often contributed to reminding him of his impure provenance.

He would never be like them, he had understood that. _But I will be more than them._

***

Seen from the outside, it was difficult to grasp the scale of Winterfell, when only the pointed roofs of its vertiginous towers could surpass the height of its stone walls. But when you walked through the wall and stepped foot on the ancestral fortress of the House Stark, the suspicion of its grandeur gave way to astonishment at its monumental splendour. When one saw it for the first time, there was little doubt as to why Winterfell was so strongly identified as the heart of the North.

It all started from the First Keep, the work of Brandon the Builder, the 'old keep', as the people of the castle liked to call it, whose old circular walls could be seen in the distance over the inner walls of the northeast. The old broken tower, which had been struck by lightning on its side, was so high despite the fact that its upper part had collapsed by lightning that one could imagine that it reached the heavens at its foot.

Work of perfection and surrounded by myths and legends dating from eight thousand years ago, Winterfell had grown over the millennia to the point where it was now the most massive castle of all time, if the disproportionate ruins of Harrenhal were omitted. The dungeon of Winterfell was clearly visible, huge and surreal. Consisting of several towers with pointed roofs and high buildings, surrounded by high fortified walls, it was in fact so vast and imposing that people often preferred the term citadel to that of dungeon. A fortress within the fortress.

Seen from where Jon stood, Winterfell seemed more like a fortified town than a castle, while the slate roofs of the half-timbered barnyard buildings, houses, attics and warehouses, stables, barracks and numerous other utility buildings covered the alleys and earthy spaces of the castle.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

Jon turned his gaze away from the citadel of Winterfell as soon as Uncle Benjen broke the silence. Nevertheless, despite his words, Uncle Benjen hadn't let go of the masterly view of their childhood home, and reigned in his steel-grey eyes –just as in Robb's sky-blue eyes– that glimmer of admiration.

The resemblance between his brother and uncle became all the more striking as they admired the castle in silence. Robb may have taken on the colours of the House Tully, but it emanated from his fine features, his long face, his strong jaw or his forehead, a Stark of Winterfell as authentic as Father and Uncle Benjen.

“Look at all these people.” Robb continued. “Have we ever seen such a crowd in the castle?”

“Not in my lifetime for sure, nor in my father's lifetime before me.” their uncle replied. “Which means something because he was not young.”

Uncle Benjen was right, for Jon had never seen Winterfell so crowded and bustling with activity. Although the long caravan routes outside the castle had already proved to be impressive, the alleys inside it had simply become unrecognisable. The courtyards surrounding the citadel, which were usually vast and empty, had been temporarily transformed into improvised warehouses, in regard to the growing number of carts filled to the brim and the mountains of crates lying on the ground. All this, and the crowd.

“Let's hasten.” continued Benjen, while starting a descent from the wall by a staircase a few metres away. “Your Father must be waiting for you and the exhibitions will not start without you two.”

So Robb followed, and Jon imitated his brother. They soon found themselves moving through the alleys.

There were hundreds of people, and as they passed through the alleys towards the citadel and the high courtyard, most of them made way for them, many of them accompanying their spacing with almost exaggerated curtsies as they bent over. The others imitated by group effect or by finally recognising them in turn.

“Lord Stark!”; “May the Gods bless the House Stark!” he heard on both sides. Some of these deferential greetings were addressed to Robb and Uncle Benjen, but it was clear that the smallfolk were also addressing him with humble and respectful glances. It was as disturbing as it was priding, as the eyes of these thousands of common folk shone with reverence and expectation.

It was as if they made no distinction between him and his brother, despite the fact that he was easily recognisable by his colourful and exotic eyes and the bright contrast created by his silver strand through the obsidian; as if he were no less than Jon Stark, in whose midst flowed the blood of the ancient kings of winter and the princes of the North.

Their footsteps led them to the citadel, so they crossed the large central gate leading to the high courtyard, whose heavy portcullis was straightened. From then on, the earthen ground gave way to a paved floor, while the smallfolk became rarer here.

Jon later recognised the horses and the lords' parties that he had previously seen entering the castle, and it was not long before he spotted the noble families gathered in a converted part of the courtyard, together with Father and the other members of the Stark household. Outdoor screens, free-standing awnings, tables, armchairs and tapestries had been installed, forming a sort of improvised arena with the corner of the paved courtyard.

The houses of the North had already taken possession of the place, as the coat of arms on the coloured screens criss-crossing between the tables and the silverware already resting on them. The servants of the castle kitchens were already busy supplying them, and while the men seemed to be gathering on the arena, the women and children had settled down at the tables and armchairs.

As always, Theon Greyjoy stood by Father's side. He was not alone, as most of the Lords of the North now present in the castle were not far away, and not only their sons, judging by the presence of the women-at-arms of the House Mormont surrounding Lord Jorah.

They all gradually turned around as they approached, some letting them pass so that they could reach Father and others greeting them with their eyes, as in the case of Ser Mark Ryswell, a few metres away from Father, Lord Medger and another tall man whom Jon recognised as also a Ryswell, judging by the coat of arms engraved on his plate torso. _A golden horse's head, identical to the coat of arms of Lady Barbrey Dustin._ _This must be Lord Rodrik Ryswell._

“Father, they announced themselves as soon as Robb and he stood before the Lord of Winterfell.”

Their father immediately turned in their direction, interrupting his discussion with Lord Rodrik and Lord Medger.

“At last, there you are both of you.” he said before he continued for Robb's attention. “I see that you have found your brother, Robb. Lord Cerwyn told me that he was greeting people from the lookout at the south gate.”

“That was the case, indeed.” answered his brother while putting a hand on his shoulder. “I hope we didn't take too long.”

“You didn't.” Father told them, before turning to his neighbour. “Lord Ryswell, allow me to introduce my sons to you. This is my first-born Robb, heir of Winterfell, and this is my second son, Jon, who will soon inherit Dragonstone. Robb, Jon, this is Lord Rodrik of the Rills, Lord of the House Ryswell.”

“Young Lords, it is an honour to meet you. I have heard a lot about you two and your exploits, especially your first hunt. A shadowcat is not within everyone's reach, especially one as massive as the stories describe. I recognize the boldness of your late uncle Brandon and grandfather Rickard in such a catch.” exclaimed the Ryswell in a loud voice while bowing.

Robb immediately stepped forward and greeted their father's powerful vassal with equal reverence.

“I thank you sincerely, Lord Rodrik.” replied the young heir in a clear tone, while adopting the etiquette their father had instilled in them over the years. “The House Stark will always be grateful for the loyalty of the House Ryswell and its prominent role in the defence of the North.”

In an instant, and under the silent invitation of the Warden of the North, the Lords of the Houses Ryswell and Cerwyn began to move away alongside Robb while chatting courteously. Father gave him just one friendly glance before turning back to join them, surely anxious to maintain good relations with the lord of House Ryswell. His two eldest daughters were after all married to Lord Roose Bolton and Lord William Dustin. It would be unwise to neglect him.

Jon would have liked to stick to that humble and rational conclusion, but as he silently watched his father and brother walk away from him, the sarcastic look on Theon Greyjoy's face and his equally provocative smile contributed to his awareness that he had not been told to follow them.

“It appears to me that the lords of the North have absolutely nothing to do with the hand of a second son. And yet that one would soon inherit Dragonstone, what a pity!”

Jon did not answer to the reply of the Ironborn. If he had even looked at him to begin with, he quickly pretended to ignore him so that the fool would get bored even before any interaction.

“On the assumption that you really inherit Dragonstone and that the big drunken stag remembers you between two drinking sprees, which I doubt. In the end, you will only inherit wind, and you will be Lord Snow, Lord of nothing.”

Even if he looked away, Jon guessed from the proud tone of the Greyjoy his laughing eyes and sly corner smile. Only boys like him or Benfred would laugh at their own petty remarks.

“No high lord of the north would agree to marry his daughter off to a 'second son', especially when it meant that she would be buried a thousand leagues away in the south. They prefer first-born of noble lineage and with a vigorous cock like Daryn Hornwood.”

Even before he really realised it, Jon re-established eye contact with the Greyjoy and felt the anger take possession of his mind.

“Shut up Greyjoy, and look at yourself before you speak! I don't care what you think! You're nothing more than a hostage abandoned by your father, no better than a servant under mine! Go back and eat the leftovers left by your master like the dog you are and choke on your own shit!”

The smile of the Ironborn disappeared as quickly as his line had burst in his ear. The latter, however, recovered far too quickly for his taste, a grin reappearing on his face like weed.

“If it makes you feel better Snow, firstborn or second son, a bastard like you will always remain a bastard.” he said in a tone as hateful as it was mocking. “As for your poor stone, if you are even lucky enough to inherit it, it will never be more than a vulgar islet compared to the Iron Islands, of which I will one day be the absolute ruler. Ah, and I will fuck all the women I want, unlike you, bastard, who can never hope for more than a vulgar crab fisherwoman with a stinking mould.”

The Greyjoy then began to follow in Father's footsteps in such a way that it was difficult for him not to be offended and even more difficult to ignore the blood boiling in his veins.

“Ignore him, nephew.” Uncle Benjen whispered in his ear, reminding Jon that his uncle had witnessed the whole thing.

“Forgive me, Uncle… It was unworthy of me. I shouldn't have lost control of myself, it's just that…”

The Stark interrupted him before he could say anything by heavily placing his hand on his head. He didn't miss the chance to tousle his hair with a sudden movement.

“I know.” Benjen replied simply, but his gaze was unequivocal. _Father told him._ “Don't justify yourself, you had every right to answer him. He is the unworthy one. He thinks he's clever, but he doesn't realise his own alienation. You are free and you will be lord, but he is only a hostage and will remain so until his father dies. And that's assuming he doesn't die before then, for he'll be the first to lose his head if Balon Greyjoy were to rebel again.”

“Freedom is a matter of perspective, uncle…” he replied in a low voice while staring at his father and brother slowly moving away from them. “Theon might for a time be a hostage of Father, but I will forever be a hostage of my bastardy.”

His uncle remained silent, addressing him only with a pressure of his hand on his shoulder, as if to show him his presence and support. Jon felt nothing but helplessness. Lady Stark's look of disdain and mistrust came to his mind, as did those of some of the people in the castle such as Ser Rodrik Cassel and Sir Vayon Poole. Snow or Stark, legitimate or not, that would never change.

An impact in his back immediately took him out of his thoughts and almost made him trip forward.

“Surprise attack!!” he heard as he barely managed to catch up, while little legs wrapped around him and a small body pressed against his back.

Jon would recognise this slender voice amongst a thousand.

“Arya, damn it!” he complained before trying to catch her.

His attempts to unhook her were in vain, the said Arya clinging on him like a tamer on his mount, and the next few seconds were nothing but laughter, to those of his improvised tamer being added those of Uncle Benjen.

“Come on Jon, yah! Forward!”

“Arya, we are in public, stop it…” he blew into embarrassment. “And you are heavy, get down.”

“What? That's not true, I'm not heavy!” she replied, tightening her grip to show her protest. “Isn't it true that I'm not heavy, Uncle Benjen?”

“You're not heavy.” Benjen replied immediately with amusement, despite the falsely threatening look that Jon sent him.

“You see, even our uncle says so!”

“Our uncle can make mistakes like everyone else.” he replied hastily, taking advantage of Arya's inattention to tickle her.

In an instant, the little girl broke her grip without even containing her laughter and Jon turned around to retaliate. The idea of not embarrassing Father and their household in front of their guests somehow took a back seat to the high and low laughter of none other than his little sister, Arya Stark.

“No, Jon, that's not fair, not the tickles!” she cried out between her laughs. “Please have mercy!”

“Mercy, you say?” he questioned, quickly sharing an amused look with their uncle.

“Mercy!” she repeated, gasping for breath. “I surrender! I promise, Jon, I'm done!”

Jon then put an end to the girl's ordeal, leaving the girl half hysterical and laughing. A fleeting but vivid sunlight came in the next instant, shimmering on the watery reflection of her light grey eyes. More than any of their brothers and sisters, she was the one who had best displayed the colours of their family. Jon had taken from his southern family, while Lady Catelyn's other children had taken from their Tully of Riverrun roots. But not Arya Stark.

When the northern sun shone, the steel in Arya's eyes glowed so brightly that it turned silver. It gave a picturesque and authentic contrast to her dark and brushy hair, which grew as brown as it was dense. Arya was undeniably Father's daughter. Old Nan said of her eyes that she had taken them from Lord Rickard, their grandfather, and of her hair that she had taken it from Lady Lyarra, their grandmother, who herself had inherited it from their great-grandmother Lady Arya Flint. But Old Nan was surely the only one to retrace their family tree with such detail and vivacity. For in the castle, people were saying quite different things. _According to them, Arya would be Aunt Lyanna come again. The little she-wolf of Winterfell._

Father always seemed sad or nostalgic when their aunt's name was mentioned in his presence and he would isolate himself in the crypts of their illustrious family for hours. Perhaps that was why he was so indulgent towards his turbulent and undocile little sister, despite Lady Catelyn's many pleas.

“What are you doing here, Arya? Shouldn't you be with Sansa, or your mother?”

“Please no.” replied the mischievous little girl simply. “I can't stand Sansa and Jeyne any longer. Both of them can go to hell.”

“Arya…” he grumbled as he shook his head.

His sister immediately understood the nature of his complaint.

“But it's true, Jon! All they do is talk about boys, talk about weddings, and cackle like hens! And they laughed at me again!”

“That's no reason to blaspheme and curse your sister, young lady.” Benjen intervened, but his supposed admonition was not very consistent with the big smile woven into his face as he stared at Arya. Perhaps he is seeing Aunt Lyanna too. “Besides, if the Children of the Forest were to hear your curse, they would make you grow a snout and a corkscrew tail. Don't you dare let them hear you.”

Arya laughed at their uncle's added comment.

“You're lying, Uncle Benjen!” she blew between two laughs. “The Children of the Forest would never do that.”

“Of course they would, you can believe me. You can even go and ask Nan if you don't believe me, she'll confirm it. After all, that's what happened to Prince Rodrik when he confessed in front of the heart tree of Winterfell that he was the only one who covered his older brother Brandon's bed with excrement.”

Jon could not repress his smile when he saw Arya's face turning pale at their uncle's revelation, certainly in view of the fact that she was the author of the same crime as the said Rodrik Stark. He remembered that Sansa had cried for a long time when she discovered the odious misdeed. Uncle Benjen had told him the same story when he was her age and he had been just as gullible in believing it. _I could believe anything, at that time._

“Hey Jon?”

Arya was staring at him with curiosity. There was a gleam in her lovely grey eyes that seemed to oscillate between shyness and respect.

“Are you going to take part in the exhibitions too?” she asked then. “Jeyne is stupid, she said that you wouldn't. She said that only Robb and Theon will do it! Aren't you going to participate?”

“That's why I'm here.” he replied before kneeling down at her height. “And I don't intend to make a fool of myself.”

“You're going to beat them all, you mean.” Arya corrected him in a chuckle. “You're the best swordsman I know.” 

His chuckle echoed that of his little sister before he came to affectionately rub her mane.

“Don't exaggerate, little sister. I can certainly beat people my own age, but adults like Father, Arthur or Martyn would soon get the better of me.”

Arya took it for granted, which meant she agreed, even though she didn't seem to like the idea. It always warmed his heart to see how unconditionally his youngest sister supported him. Jon didn't miss the nostalgic gaze of their uncle, who watched them in silence.

“I'd like to participate too.” she claimed then.

“I don't think Lady Catelyn would agree. Neither would Father.” he said softly. “You're too young.”

“And I'm a girl.” Arya added annoyed. “Mordane even scolded me for catching me playing stick with Bran, but she didn't say anything to Bran. A girl shouldn't behave like a boy, especially when she is a lady, that's what she told me. It's not fair. I don't want to be a lady. Sometimes I'd rather be a boy like Bran.”

Jon remained silent as he didn't know what to say, and instead just distractedly scratched the little Stark's scalp. While Father and Uncle Benjen tolerated Arya's eccentricities and tomboyish character without any difficulty, the same could not be said of Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane. Frequent were their attempts to put his irreducible little sister 'back on the straight and narrow'. Frequent but in vain.

“But Bran will not have the chance to gallop on Winter with me, along the Acorn Water.”

It didn't take much longer for the sad eyes of his sister to light up and her frustrated look to dissipate and give way to an excited look.

“Really? You promise? When?”

“Later on, if you are good and if Father agrees.” he replied with a big smile.

It was quite obvious that Father would agree, and judging by the way his little sister hit him with a big hug, she understood this very well. _Lady Catelyn will not agree, but Father will always have the last word._

Jon invited his sister to move away with a pressure on her shoulder as soon as he noticed a few people approaching. He recognised them immediately.

“I hope we're not interrupting anything.” said one of them.

“Not at all, Lord William.” he said courteously as he rose to his feet, imitated by Arya. “It is a pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

Lord William Dustin faced them. Five years ago, the Lord of Barrow Hall had returned to his fief, to his wife and his newly born daughter. But despite the passage of time, he was as tall and dashing as Jon had always known him.

“A pleasure I share, young man.” the man replied with a big smile. “Winterfell is unparalleled in the North, so I was looking forward to showing my daughter the splendour of it. Even more than that, I wanted to introduce her to you. Sweet Barbrey, Lyarra, meet Jon, and his sister Arya Stark.”

On his left were his wife Lady Barbrey and their daughter Lyarra, the former holding the hand of the latter.

Jon bowed respectfully and greeted the two ladies of the House Dustin. Lady Barbrey was a tall woman, with a slender appearance accentuated by a very dignified and proud posture. She displayed a beauty that was as cold as it was disturbing. This was all the more true as she wore a long black dress strangely matching her dark colours: although her skin was rather matt, her eyes and hair were deep black, too faint to shine in the sun but enough to disturb the eyes.

Little Lyarra Dustin had taken a lot from her mother, having inherited her fine dark hair rather than Lord William's thick, chestnut hair. However, she was fair-skinned like her father, and her cheekbones were lower and less pronounced. Like her mother, Lyarra wore an elegant black dress, but while Lady Barbrey's dress was covered with ochre embroideries and bore the golden horse with red mane, the colour of her Ryswell coat of arms, Lady Lyarra's dress was covered with yellow and ochre Dustin war axes.

“I was looking forward to meeting the young man for whom my husband is so full of praise. Nice to meet you, Jon Stark.”

If the words of Barbrey Dustin had been courteous, her cold way of expressing herself was an intimidating contrast. But Jon was quick to note her formal and clear way of naming him in contrast to Benfred Tallhart's sarcasm. _She called me Jon Stark._

“The honour is mine, Lady Dustin…”

“Jon Stark.” she repeated. “You don't look like your father.”

The latter had addressed her remark in a dry and incisive tone, not burdened with any further formalities, going straight to the point without really waiting. A quick and discreet glance at her husband was enough for Jon to understand that Barbrey Dustin was dictating situations at will.

“But that's not a bad thing. The south is volatile, and appearance is an asset.” she said, before adding gently: “You remind me of Domeric.”

Jon raised his eyebrows for a moment at the mention of this name, only recognising Domeric Bolton. The heir to the Dreadfort, the stronghold of the House Bolton, had however died in mysterious circumstances a few months ago. His death was one of the reasons why the Ryswells were so zealous in their approach to Father. The loss of the Bolton heir prompted them to enter into marriage alliances with other high northern families, and Robb was still not engaged. _I doubt, however, that Father would engage either of us without our prior consent._

“Domeric… The late son of Lord Roose Bolton?” he asked then, not without hesitation in view of the context.

“Himself. My dear and sad nephew.” replied the lady of Barrowton nostalgically. “He served as a page in our court. You remind me of him a little, in a way. Tall, with long black hair and colourful eyes, like him. May you live longer.”

Jon felt Arya press on his hand at that very moment, probably due to Lady Barbrey's sudden interest. The lady had in fact laid her firm gaze on his sister... A gaze that softened quite quickly, judging by the little smile that wove itself on her chapped and fleshy lips.

“As for you, young lady, you have decidedly taken on the features of a pure-blooded Stark. I can see why people say you look like your aunt… But they're wrong, as they often are when it comes to gossip.” she said as Jon noticed that she was exchanging glances with Uncle Benjen. “It is to your uncle Brandon that you look like. You have his eyes and his nose. Anyone close enough to the Stark family should realize that. One would think that this country has forgotten its princes.”

Jon didn't repress his smile at the observations of the Lady of the House Dustin and at Arya's shy and touching reaction. While her sister pretended to mock the issues of feminine beauty, cultivated sores and bumps, and sometimes dressed so modestly that strangers would mistake her for a stable boy, the truth remained that she was particularly sensitive to criticism and even more so to compliments. The uncontrolled reddening of her cheekbones was a clear sign of this.

“Thank you, Lady Barbrey.” she stuttered as her eyes alternated between the floor and the Dustin.

A brief moment of silence ensued, which the lady of Barrow Hall cut short by patting her young daughter on the back and telling her to step forward.

“Lyarra, come forward and introduce yourself.”

Lyarra Dustin, tiny as she was, seemed broken in her silence. She seemed to be almost trembling like a leaf, but then she stepped forward and changed in an instant to show them a perfect curtsy.

“I am Lady Lyarra from the House Dustin of Barrowton.” she said in a calm voice, but still betraying a certain apprehension. “It is an honour to meet you, Lord Jon, Lady Arya.”

Her impeccable gestures and singing voice made Jon understand that the Dustin heiress had received a thorough education that was worthy of her status. Her discreet glances at his little sister also made him realize that her manners had essentially been directed at her. If he remembered correctly what Maester Luwin had revealed to him, Lyarra Dustin was born shortly after Arya and, like her, was just under eight years old. The willingness to pay tribute to the House Stark and to officially show themselves in their legacy was obvious, if you think about it. Lyarra Stark had been the daughter of Arya Flint. In a way, Lyarra Dustin was born to be Arya's lady-in-waiting. _And according to Maester Luwin, Lord William and Lady Barbrey are in discussion with Father about an engagement between Lyarra and Bran. Robb aside, this would make one more marriage that would strengthen Lord Rodrik Ryswell's influence in the North._

“The honour is ours, Lady Lyarra.” he replied kindly. “I hope you will be comfortable at Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Lord Jon.” she replied quickly.

Arya remained silent and simply stared at the Dustin heiress in a way that made her feel very uncomfortable. This was to be expected, as Arya did not want anything to do with anyone who would bring her back to her ladyhood and the duties that came with it. And at first glance Lyarra seemed to be a perfect little lady who could evoke Sansa. A redhibitory criterion for his impetuous little sister, if there was one.

However, Lyarra would surely become Arya's lady-in-waiting, just as Jeyne Poole and the Cassel cousins, Beth and Greta, were to Sansa. If Maester Luwin was right, it was even possible that she might become their goodsister. _Don't be silly, little sister, you have to welcome her_ , he thought as he saw the situation extending. In the absence of any initiative on his sister's part, Jon quickly forced her hand.

“Arya, why not welcome Lady Lyarra and Lady Barbrey? You certainly have a lot to talk about.”

Arya threw an accusing look at him without delay, as if she was silently accusing him of putting her in a compromising situation. However, although she gave him that clearly reluctant glimmer, it was enough for her to deign to address her fellow lady.

“You like horse riding?” he heard from his sister's mouth as she was walking away with their guest.

In an instant, the two girls had started talking and creating a bond. It was quite clear that Lyarra Dustin loved horse riding. Silent, Lady Barbrey looked at him with an analytical and indebted look, and then turned back to follow her daughter and Arya.

“Arya and my daughter will become great friends.” he heard from Lord William as he watched them, a renewed smile on his face. “It doesn't look like it at first glance, but Lyarra is more of the North than anyone could imagine. Just like her mother. An axe is hidden under the linen.”

“This is a good thing because Arya doesn't really get along with her sister, nor with any of the other girls in the castle. She tends to run away from them and their activities and prefers our presence, Bran and I… Assuming that I do leave, Arya will not be able to rely on me or Bran forever. He will probably leave too. Ser Mark proposed to Father to make him his squire.” he replied, also observing the three ladies who were walking away from the arena.

Lord William seemed to receive this information with satisfaction, in view of his proud acquiescence. Jon was well aware that Father's bannermen admired Ser Mark, especially those closest to him. Bran's dream of being a knight aside, to become Ser Mark Ryswell's squire and to be knighted by him would be a mark of great prestige in the North. And all the more prestigious for a potential lord of Barrowton whose wife would be half Ryswell.

“I understand why Father wants Lyarra to become one of her ladies-in-waiting. Arya needs a model as much as she needs a friend, and a girl her age would do her the greatest good. Your daughter will certainly help her to find her place.”

The silence returned for a moment, until Uncle Benjen broke it.

“Regarding Bran, you have nothing to envy him in terms of knighthood, nephew.” he said. His amusement barely concealed a childish complaint that Jon had heard several times before. “There will only ever be one man fed and knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne.”

Jon didn't answer, but his smile spoke for him. Soon Uncle Arthur would make him a knight, and whether he was Stark or Snow, he would be Ser Jon no matter what. That was his only real certitude.

“To be knighted by the King is a great honour, Uncle. You have nothing to envy from me, especially since I am not even a knight yet.”

“It may be a great honour, but I wouldn't know what to do with my knighthood after thirty years. You, on the other hand…”

Uncle Benjen stopped suddenly. His uncertain gaze had turned to the entrance of the high courtyard, as had Lord William's, to the sound of horses and carriage wheels. Jon soon realised his uncle’s state of mind when he saw the banners floating in the wind: Sable, a sunburst-in-winter argent. The colours of the House Karstark of Karhold. _She should be here._

“The exhibitions should start soon. I think the time has come for us to return to our respective places.” Lord William suddenly pronounced, breaking the sudden silence. “My heart is with you, young Jon. Good luck.”

All he received from Uncle Benjen was a supportive glance and a strong acquiescence, but he needed nothing else. His Uncle followed Lord William, while they went away to join the other lords with Father. Jon saw Lord Rickard Karstark and his eldest son Harrion.

So he went back to where he was supposed to be: with the other young cadets and heirs. Robb was there and seemed caught up in an energetic conversation with the two cadet sons of Lord Rickard of Karhorld, Torrhen and Eddard Karstark, as well as the heir of Hornwood, Daryn Hornwood. Theon Greyjoy was joking with Benfred Tallhart and three other young men whom Jon concluded were the two eldest sons of Arthor Karstark, cousin of Lord Rickard, and Jon Umber, known as the Smalljon, heir to the Last Heart. While both Karstarks were relatively small in stature, with an almost fragile physique, they looked like typical Starks with brown hair and grey eyes. They contrasted sharply with Benfred Tallhart and Jon Umber, who were particularly tall and massive. _Especially Jon Umber… You could mistake him for a giant. The coat of arms of their house is certainly not usurped._

“Jon!” he heard not far away.

It was Cley Cerwin who approached him with a smile on his face. He was not alone, and Jon easily recognized Lyra and Jorelle Mormont, two of Lady Maege Mormont's younger daughters.

“Hello Jon.” these last two announced themselves in kindly tones.

Similarly to the contrast between Jon Umber and Arthor Karstark's two sons, Arys and Cregard, the contrast was amusing enough to be noted. Cley was indeed smaller than the two Mormont sisters. But this was not so surprising, as Cley was younger than them, by more than a year as far as he and Jorelle were concerned, and by three regarding Lyra.

“Hello you three.” he replied, while observing the chainmail outfits that the two Mormont girls were wearing. “Are you both planning to take part in the exhibitions?”

“Are you really asking the question, Jon?” Lyra replied with amusement. In a way, Jon actually regretted asking a question whose answer was so obvious. “Of course we're going to participate. Our mother wouldn't hear it any other way, and I intend to shut the mouth of that idiot Tallhart anyway.”

“If he can still stand after our duel to fight you, which I doubt.” he replied with a smile.

The Mormont sisters laughed at the idea but did not respond. Around them, the lords and ladies began to move. With the exception of the Mormont women, most of the ladies who stood among the lords returned to the outdoor screens and the standing awnings, mainly in the presence of Lady Catelyn. Jon noticed Lady Barbrey Dustin, but also Lady Sybelle Glover, Lady of Deepwood Motte, and Lady Berena Hornwood, wife of Ser Leobald Tallhart.

Sansa and Arya were on each side of their mother, flanked by their respective retinue. It was quite easy to recognise Sansa's retinue since, apart from the coats of arms of their dresses, they had the same long, colourful and patterned robes and the same elaborate hairstyles. In comparison to these very feminine archetypes, Arya and her young ladies were the opposite. Lyarra was naturally to the right of his youngest sister and seemed to be already adapting to her role as a lady-in-waiting, but Jon soon noticed the presence of Eddara Tallhart to her right. Nothing was left to chance in even the most ordinary ceremonial orders of precedence, which meant that Eddara had also been chosen to become a lady-in-waiting of Arya by Father or Lady Catelyn. _In view of Eddara's personality, this does not look like a choice of Father… I would bet more on a choice of Lady Catelyn. Will Arya settle down in their presence, or will she corrupt them with her antics?_

It was then that he saw her, and their eyes met.

Her eyes hadn't changed, shining in the white sunlight with an everlasting blue-grey colour. Her long, thin face was still as elegant as ever and her cheekbones still as high and coquettish as ever. Her skin as clear as his always seemed to be as silky and soft as porcelain, shining with beauty and grace. In an almost mystical contrast, her long braided hair was brown and dark, giving that play of colour so typical of the Northern Starks, which evoked the delicate wood of the firs of the godswoods, as when he first met her at the foot of the weirwood of Winterfell. The sections of her long, thin grey lady's dress were flying in the wind, while her shoulders were covered with an elegant jet black fur cape, which was fastened at the height of her slender bosom by two criss-crossing leather straps and on the junction of which was the metallic emblem of the sunburst-in-winter of Karhold.

Alys Karstark was as beautiful as ever. _No, she has become even more beautiful._

“Jon, are you all right?” he heard.

The worried voice of Cley immediately brought him out of his contemplation and he was able to notice the worried looks of Cley and the Mormont sisters. As time passed, he realized that he had stopped breathing, so he tried as hard as he could to regain his senses. But the damage had been done, as soon as he saw the pale and sad smile stretching on Alys' lips, quickly followed by her distancing.

Alys did not spare him a second glance and continued on her way alongside Lady Donella Hornwood, Lady Leona Manderly, and her daughters, Lady Wynafrid and Lady Willa. He certainly didn't miss the suspicious and scrutinizing glances of Torrhen and Eddard Karstark, a few metres away from him.

When he turned away from them, Alys had already disappeared among the screens.

“It’s all right, Cley.” he blew without any real pretension. “It’s all right.”

They were not fooled, nor was he. But when Father's voice echoed across the arena and the lords laughed at the agreement of the names designated for the first exhibition duels, none of them said any more. Everything had already been said, long ago.

***

An intense burst of sunlight gleamed on the blunt edge of Jon Umber's training sword and dazzled the people in the courtyard, while the heir of the Last Heart sliced through the air with a powerful movement of his arm. The whistling of the wind that followed his impressive slice movement explained in every way why his opponent retreated with such caution. However, the precautions with which the young Robert Dustin was moving did not change his fate, whereas Jon Umber remained within reach and pursued his unbridled aggressions.

Smaller and weaker in stature than his opponent, Robert Dustin found himself trapped in a few minutes in a constant and feverish retreat, without even being able to break contact, while the large Umber increased his ruthless assault proportionately. His footsteps faltered and his guard crumbled in two phases, allowing the Umber to hit him twice at his chest and his sword hand. It didn't take much longer for the second one to put down the first, and the Dustin fell heavily on the ground, dropping his sword, while the heavy chainmail covering his chest and the iron helmet on his head resounded at his impact against the pavement of the courtyard, and then, a deafening silence.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by the festive and victorious cries of the Umber retinue, Lord Jon Umber, known as the Greatjon, being the loudest of them all. They were soon followed by episodic waves of laughter from the Lords of the North, no doubt due to the jokes they played as they watched their sons and cadets compete. Father was there among them, always dignified and humble, leaning on the imposing and prestigious Ice, the Valyrian sword of the House Stark. Lord William Dustin, Lord Rickard Karstark and Lord Rodrik Ryswell were on either side of him, as were Lord Medger Cerwyn, Ser Mark Ryswell, Ser Martyn Cassel, Ser Helman Tallhart and his younger brother Ser Leobald. As for Lord Jon Umber, he gesticulated brazenly in front of Father, provoking the laughter of his contemporaries.

There was one among them, however, who did not laugh in the least. Ser Willar Dustin, who was further back in this lordly line with a well-established order of precedence, looked quite bitter. Not at all surprising, considering that it was his eldest son who was crawling before everyone's eyes. Such an apparent humiliation was not easy to take.

“I expected better from a Dustin of Barrow Hall.” Jon heard on his left. “Don't they teach them to fight at Barrowton?”

Jorelle Mormont was standing right there with her arms folded. Her haughty tone reflected the expression on her face as she looked at the young Dustin, defeated and lying flat on his back on the ground.

“Don't be rude, Jory.” her sister Lyra replied immediately. “Did you see the size of Jon Umber? It was rather predictable that it would end like this. Even Dacey would have a hard time against such a man.”

“I know I would have done better. To give in so easily is a shame! On Bear Island, a shrimp like this would be devoured in less than three months. They wouldn't even make a nurse out of it.”

Jon was unable to hold back a spontaneous puffing at Jorelle's answer. Of course, she didn't miss a thing and turned to look at him aggressively.

“Anything you want to say, Jon? Or is it my face that amuses you?”

“Not at all, Jorelle.” he answered in a diplomatic tone. “It has to be said that Dustin was facing a formidable opponent... Is there a single creature on the continent as fearsome as an Umber? Unless there are still giants beyond the Wall, but I have no way of proving it.”

The wrinkled eyes of the Mormont and her stiff and suspicious expression made him realise that she did not believe him to be honest. Lyra Mormont's amused expression, for her part, made him suspect that Lady Maege Mormont's fourth daughter was not the most prompt when it came to diplomacy. But he knew that, as the young cousins of Lord Jorah had already stayed several times in Winterfell. Although they were not particularly familiar to him, they were no strangers either.

“Besides, if you ignore the difference in size, Jon Umber is still much more competent. Only a veteran who knows his weapon plays with the sun's rays to dazzle his opponent, it's not trivial, I assure you.” he continued, focusing his gaze again on the two fighters. “He has much better control of his posture and he masters his measure in an outstanding way. It is said of the Umbers that they are masters of maces, but I have to say that Jon Umber is an excellent swordsman.”

When he looked at her again, Jorelle didn't look at him annoyed anymore. Nodding three times, it seemed that the Mormont had taken the commentary for granted. Cley too, judging by his renewed and admiring glance at the heir of the Last Heart. Not that Jon had lied. Jon Umber skills were too apparent for anyone to deny them.

“I really do look forward to seeing you face Tallhart.” Lyra replied, displaying a smile from which it was difficult to ignore the jubilant aspect.

“And so do I.”

Jon refrained from wincing as soon as he heard the voice of Theon Greyjoy. He was just a few yards away in the line of heirs. Some of the others had their eyes on him as well, making him realize that Cley and the Mormont sisters weren't the only ones listening to his observations.

“We're all anxious to see if the swordsman is as good at theory as he is at practice, aren't we, Snow?”

“Theon…” Robb intervened immediately.

The sharp voice of his older brother sounded like a warning and immediately calmed the Ironborn's ardour. No doubt the latter remembered in whose presence he was standing. Robb could tolerate a lot of things, from the Greyjoy as well as from many others, but he would not accept the evocation of his bastard origins from anyone. The Greyjoy had learned this at his own expense the day he had lost the influence he had over his brother.

The calls of the lords were then heard, marking the start of the next exhibition duel. A little further on, when he was appointed, the young Raymun Ryswell came out of the ranks. He was the grandson of Lord Rodrik Ryswell. The resemblance to his elders was quite striking, especially as Jon could make comparisons with ease: all of Lord Rodrik's living children and grandchildren were here among the lords, the young participants in the exhibitions or the observers comfortably seated under the awnings.

Daryn Hornwood, in his turn, stepped forward. The appearance of the heir of Hornwood contrasted with that of the young Ryswell. While Lord Rodrik's grandson wore a simple strapped hauberk without any pretensions, the Hornwood had richly decorated his own, covering it with a colourful surcoat, bearing the coat of arms of his house: Tenné, a bullmoose brunâtre attired sable. The legendary elk, which was said to populate only the wilderness beyond the wall, seemed to embody the young heir, in that it stood in an almost exaggeratedly haughty manner, and its shiny, large, noble iron greathelm was not to diminish the impression due to the elk antlers that had been attached to it.

Encouragement soon began to emerge across the high courtyard from both lords and ladies. This was not surprising, however; in a way, this face-to-face encounter had been the most eagerly awaited of all: Both Raymun Ryswell and Daryn Hornwood represented the two most influential factions in the North. Through his father, Raymun represented the Houses Ryswell and Dustin, and all the sworn houses from the Barrowlands, south of Winterfell, to the Rills and the Stony Shores of the west coast. Meanwhile, Daryn Hornwood, in addition to representing the House Hornwood, represented through his mother, Lady Donella, the powerful House Manderly of White Harbour; and indeed all the sworn noble houses that populated from the White Knife to the east coast. Nobody would have doubted it, seeing how Wylla Manderly would lose herself in cheering for her cousin.

But more than anyone else, it was the encouragement of the Karstarks, father and sons, that twisted Jon's heart. It was then hard for him to stop looking among the ladies and damoiselles of the North, hoping to find her lovely blue-grey eyes.

Father declared the duel soon after the contestants had been brought their dull blades and it took no more than that for the Ryswell to meet the Hornwood in a fierce exchange of iron.

“Look at this pretentious guy.” Jon heard. “He looks like a maiden in armour. Does he think he's in the south, among all the sweet-smelling little lords?”

Jon Umber had returned to his place among their ranks, having finished with the honours that Father paid to each of the victors. He was the one who had made himself known, while the two opponents clashed and the iron resounded in the courtyard. Most of them concentrated on the Umber rather than on the two competitors. There was no doubt in Jon's mind who the Umber was talking about. Ryswell was not richly decorated; only Hornwood.

“I don't see the connection between a sweet-smelling lord and a maiden in armour, Umber.” replied Jorelle Mormont, although the expression on her face showed amusement rather than annoyance. “I am a maiden in armour, and I don't perfume myself like a sweet-smelling little southern lord.”

“You don't perfume yourself at all, Jory.” Lyra intervened without warning.

“Lyra!”

The laughter began without delay among the heirs, correlative to the rise of red on the cheeks of the younger of the two sisters.

“Far be it from me to compare bears from the north who have taken on the appearance of women and little men from the south, Mormont. But this one, if he were living south of the Neck, it wouldn't surprise me.”

The helmet of Daryn Hornwood was shining in the sun. Somehow the bright glow dazzled Raymun Ryswell's eyes and made him vulnerable to some of his opponent's attempts. However, the Ryswell was competent where his Dustin predecessor had not been, and the fight continued in a fierce competition.

The two fighters harangued each other at the whim of the wind and the movements of their blades, throwing and firing playful taunts at each other with little at stake other than to put on an entertaining show. The lords and their heirs shouted and laughed at the top of their voices, supporting one or the other and calling for a passage of arms without any concession, as if the excitement that must surely have been flowing in the blood of the two opponents had also penetrated theirs. More humble and less noisy, the ladies did the same, however, as waves of applause resounded according to the setbacks of one or the other during the fight.

Raymun Ryswell was finally able to effectively establish the distance between himself and Daryn Hornwood. The latter, not without making two attempts to get closer, and while a temporary respite seemed to be taking shape, was deftly kept at a distance by the Ryswell, whose measure seemed to Jon to be even more masterful than that of Jon Umber. _I recognise some of the postures of Ser Mark._

“Ryswell!” Jon heard from the lordly ranks. “Courage, my boy! For the Rills!”

It was Roger Ryswell, Lord Rodrik's son and heir and father of Raymun, who had broken the surrounding hubbub with his voice.

“Long live the Rills!”

“Daryn!”

The voice of Wylla Manderly, thin but strong, crossed the courtyard as she shouted out her cousin's name. She reminded him a little of Arya, in a way. Was there anything stranger at that moment than the sight of the flashy green dyed hair of the young lady flying in the wind? She was as extravagant in sight as she was in hearing. Many people in the castle, including Maester Luwin, claimed that she was destined to be Robb's fiancée. Either she or her older sister Wynafrid.

Jon doubted that he would have made himself understood if he had tried to speak to one of his row neighbours. When melee duel events took place in the north, especially on the very eve of the Winterfell Summer Banquet, the air was as festive as it was warlike. The southerners said of the northmen that they were austere and abhorred festivities. But when one attended such an exhibition event, followed by music, fairs and banquets, nothing was more false than the so-called northern austerity.

“Be brave, Hornwood!”

“Win for Alys, Hornwood!”

Eddard and Torrhen Karstark lost themselves in louder cheers, but the sudden mention of their younger sister only made Jon bitter. Alys stood not far away, dignified and noble, motionless. Surrounded by the Manderly and Hornwood ladies, she looked like a true princess of the North.

Daryn Hornwood seemed to think so too, judging by the intensity with which he stared at her. He kissed the flat of his sword before ostensibly pointing it at Alys, as if he was dedicating it to her. The laughter and the whistle on both sides of the place were so many artifices that intimidated the Karstark, according to her reddened cheeks in surprise. Jon Umber's words only seemed truer than ever.

But the pretentiousness he had, Daryn Hornwood compensated for it with skills. Raymun had talent, he had noted, but Daryn Hornwood had more stamina. When they resumed, the games began to settle and the advantage turned in favour of the son of Lord Halys Hornwood. It didn't take more than a handful of passages of arms for the heir of Hornwood to finally grant the wishes of the two sons of the Lord of Karhold and his cousin from White Harbour, and not without a fierce battle, young Raymun flinched and collapsed. He yielded to his opponent and admitted defeat, and immediately set the courtyard ablaze, the occupants of which were further lost in laughter and festive shouts.

But Jon remained silent.

He watched Daryn Hornwood come to seek his glory from Alys, like a knight coming to return his favour and reclaim his beloved. The ephemeral and discreet but no less melancholy look he received from her left him all the more bitter.

“Aren't they charming?” asked Theon with an innocent look, through which Jon really only guessed contempt.

If he could, Jon would have preferred to withdraw rather than be forced to observe what he didn't want to see. Alys was so close, yet she had never seemed so out of reach to him as at that moment, surrounded by her own people and with Daryn Hornwood courting her. He held and kissed her hand as if it was already his, so that Jon's only solution to containing his grief and calming his heart's raging jealousy was to stop breathing. _I'm the one who should be in his place._

Alys didn't even love him, you didn't have to be a genius to see that. Her docile but muted expression was equivocal, as she nodded and seemed to answer half-word to the questions of her Manderly and Hornwood neighbours. But how could she? It wasn't the one she had chosen under the dark, blood-stained foliage of the Heart Tree of Winterfell. Those memories of the past came alive in the distance, like shadows, and he was the only one left to see them. She looked at him again for a few more seconds without even realising it and Jon couldn't even find the strength to smile at her. _Maybe she still sees them too, the shadows._

Maybe it would be better if he took her away under the white sun before the fateful day. Before he left for the south, before she left for the dales and valleys of the Sheepshead Hills. Then there would be no more Karstark, no more Manderly, no more Hornwood, no more North. It would be just the two of them, in a big castle on a sunny island. Nothing would stop them from living without having to answer to anyone else. What was duty compared to love? They could get married and start a family. They would be happy on the white sandy beaches of Dragonstone. _But would Alys really want that? Would she forgive me if I took her away against her will? Would she still love me if I separated her from her family?_

“Look at him!!” Lord Jon Umber exclaimed hilariously. “This bright young rooster looks like King Robert on the Trident!”

The shouting and thunderous laughter of the lords that followed caused him to sweat cold. He clenched his fists as frustration ran like burning iron through his veins. Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped his aunt despite her betrothal to Robert Baratheon. _What would that make me? A Prince Rhaegar who covets his Lady Lyanna? Where would that take me? Would the Hornwoods and the Karstarks come looking for me on my island to take revenge for my affront?_

“Jon... Jon, wake up!”

Jon looked at Cley in confusion when he heard his call. He immediately realized that the young Cerwyn wasn't the only one watching him in expectation. In fact, everyone was. Father's eyes gleamed even with hesitation, as if he was silently asking him if something was wrong.

“You have been summoned…” his comrade murmured with embarrassment.

“So, are you ducking, the swordsman?”

Benfred Tallhart's voice had emerged from the silence. It was clear that he was the one who had been designated as his opponent. Not unexpected, it was even foreseen. Robb's supportive gaze and nod was enough to make him come to his senses. Then Jon stepped forward.

He was immediately particularly aware of his situation as he stood in the middle of the demarcated duel area. The wind was blowing in his ears and the sun was high in the sky. He remained silent as the whispering could be heard all around him. It was Uncle Benjen who brought him his helmet. It was an elegant but sober and austere black steel visored barbute, which made him aware of his colour-matched fighting outfit. Somehow, the blackened chainmail outfit, his dark steel plate torso and his black cape made him look like a sworn knight of the Night's Watch.

“Prepare to receive the humiliation of your life, Stark.” Tallhart warned him as he fixed the straps of his visored sallet between his gorget and the mesh covering his head and shoulders. “Your performance in the last melee was just a fluke. And I'm going to show it in front of all the lords of the North.”

Jon put on his helmet without saying anything and lowered the removable visor with a quick movement.

“I am with you, nephew, impress them all.” his uncle said in a low voice before handing him the sword with which he would fight.

Grasping the sword relieved him of his dreams and anxieties, and he noted with irony the bastard nature of the hilt. _Is there only a better type of sword?_

Tallhart or Greyjoy could mock him by giving him the sobriquet of swordsman, but the blade in hand, that is what he was. He had been trained enough to learn how to clear his head before battle, so he would not forget the words that Ser Arthur Dayne had spoken in their first swordsmanship lesson. _Men can always betray you Jon, but the sword in your hand will always be yours._

Brandishing his blade and adopting a high posture, he forgot everything else and concentrated. He could feel the light breeze coming into his visor and caress his face with its freshness. He saw the play of shadows coming from the peaks of the castle spreading out on the grey pavement of the courtyard. He perceived the voices coming from the rank of the heirs as well as those coming from the lords. And Tallhart, in his posture, who waited with equal haste, ready to pounce.

When Father's voice detonated in the silence and marked the beginning of the battle, they almost met in a violent collision, the unbridled rattling of their armour marking the silent tempo of the battle, vanguard of the steel din caused by the repeated clashes of their blades.

In an instant, the screams reached him, even if the ear holes in his helmet did not help him to distinguish between them those that came from his kin. Among all of them, however, he could easily discern that of Benfred, who was lost in furious blows, trying to bring him down with all his might; and Benfred Tallhart was strong, so strong in fact in view of his massive physique that Theon had very provocatively described him as the Ox of Torrhen's Square.

But the strength that Benfred Tallhart displayed proved useless in the face of his ability to redirect his jabbing blows into the void when he tried to hit him; when the Tallhart's attacking stance seemed too aggressive, Jon was content to nimbly dodge. And so his opponent found himself chasing him in vain, seeking contact, while he retaliated effectively by striking him on his exposed flanks.

The situation persisted so long that the Tallhart began to realise the extent of the impasse he had reached. _But it is already too late for him!_

“Stop running away from me, you coward!” he cried angrily, but Jon did not respond to his protest.

All around them, the emotion caused by their melee and the tumult of shouting and laughter made a curious mix. He didn't really know what could be said: were they laughing at him? Or was he rather admired for his skills as a swordsman? He enjoyed imagining it; he enjoyed imagining Father's proud and admiring gaze, Arya's passionate gaze, Theon's envious stare, and above all Alys' anxious and restless look as she yearned for his victory. But thus absorbed in action, with both mind and heart fixated on a single goal, the emotion and shyness that such a situation would normally have caused him to feel, turned out to be non-existent.

There was only his sword, his footwork and Benfred's erratic breathing, which was inevitably exhausted.

Until there was only victory, as swift and sudden as unexpected, when he passed Benfred's feverish guard and defeated him with a clear blow. Had he wielded a war sword, the Tallhart would have died from this decisive blow, but the blunt training sword only knocked out the heir of Torrhen's Square, who fell at once on the ground from the impact.

In just a few seconds, heirs and lords were all around to assist them and inquire about Benfred's condition. Uncle Benjen approached him to relieve him of his sword, allowing him to remove his helmet. In an instant, the coolness of the wind passed over his neck and through his hair, making him realise how much he was sweating. As for Tallhart, dizzy and haggard from his fall, it was Jon Umber and Theon Greyjoy who helped him up by supporting him by the arms, and it was his cousin Brandon Tallhart who removed his sallet to allow him to breathe.

“Well done, Jon.” Uncle Benjen whispered.

His proud gaze was unequivocal, as were many others around them. The smile woven on Father's lips filled him with pride, as did the signs of greeting and recognition from Ser Mark, Ser Martyn and Lord William who stood beside him. The situation did not remain positive for long, however, as Benfred Tallhart aggressively repelled those who came to his aid.

“Let go of me, don't touch me!” he cried.

“Hey, calm down, Tallhart…” Jon Umber replied.

“What's wrong, Tallhart? Are you going to behave like a loser because you've been ridiculed?”

“Hold your damn tongue, Greyjoy!”

The acerbic response of the son of Ser Helman was accompanied by an angry expression, and as he seemed to realise the situation he was in, his face became covered with rage, turning red like a volcano that was ready to explode. He was the one who wanted to take his revenge. He knew what he was exposing himself to and he challenged me anyway.

“Let's leave it at that, Tallhart.” he intervened to try to ease the tension. “Our fathers are looking at us… Let's not shame them. It was a good fight and you fought well, let's leave it at that.”

The sudden spitting of the Tallhart at his feet marked a turning point in the atmosphere.

“I don't care what you say, Snow!” he replied. “Everyone may call you Stark, but you're nothing but a mere son of a whore of a bastard!”

Jon didn't realise exactly when the insults began, but Uncle Benjen's hand on his chest and the interposition of Jon Umber and Robb and other young heirs between them prevented him from throwing himself on the insolent man of the Barrowlands to silence him. As for the latter, coldly warned by Jon Umber and violently threatened by Robb, he did not insist and withdrew from the scene without even turning back.

Father emerged from the lords and heirs gathered together, his subjects making way for him. His neutral and opaque gaze did not reveal any of his emotions, apart from extreme coldness.

“Lord Stark! Please forgive my son's foolish behaviour!” implored Ser Helman at once as he came before Father. “That idiot didn't mean what he said, I am sure he didn't mean it! He is always hopelessly angered when he loses, defeat must have played with his head! Please have mercy, my lord!”

Father shook his head in spite and gave a weary sigh.

“Young men make mistakes in the heat of passion… However, in his absolute interest and as heir and future master of Torrhen's Square, it would be wise for your son to learn self-control. This will be my one and only warning, Helman.”

Father's cold, patient tone was a warning in itself, and the wanness that covered Ser Helman's face revealed that he had captured its threatening content.

“Yes, my lord! Your mercy will not be wasted and it will not happen again, I swear it! I will see him properly lectured and disciplined!”

Ser Helman left without delay with a brisk, almost panicky step, in the same direction as his heir, to accomplish what he had just promised Father. _But what about me? What about my honour, my dignity? Wasn't I the one to whom apologies should have been made?_

Neither the words of support nor the congratulations on his performance by his peers changed anything to the mortifying feeling of humiliation that ran through his veins for the rest of the morning.

* * *

**THE LITTLE SHE-WOLF**

The growing rustle of the foliage of the trees in the Godswood of the castle accompanied the breath of fresh air that rushed into the room. Arya Stark often tended to think that there was nothing more frustrating than to feel the lively call of the outside when she was trapped by her indoor duties. Make no mistake about it, for it was indeed a task without much interest to embroider on linen handkerchief artistic or geometric figures, using counted-thread or cross stitches methods. She might as well have preferred to embroider direwolves or even swords like the ones Jon and Robb spent their time wielding. They were lucky. Instead of a sword, Mother wanted her to handle a stupid needle like the ones Sansa was so skilled with.

The aforementioned was in front of her, embroidering a red rose on her handkerchief. The rays of the sun filtering through the high window made her long auburn hair shine, highlighting its curly and fiery relief, the same as Mother's. She seemed to be enjoying her activities, judging by her radiant smile and happy expression. Sitting next to her, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel giggled as they exchanged what Arya would dice on being worldliness and other typical nonsense. More withdrawn, Greta Cassel was somewhat more focused than her cousin or Jeyne Poole when it came to embroidery, but she imitated her companions' puffing as if she was trying to remain part of the superficial dynamics of their small group. This was not surprising, however, since today was a special day: a whole host of ladies of the North were staying at Winterfell, starting with the unexpected guest of Sansa's little suite: Lady Wylla Manderly.

They were fun to watch from her seat, each one more colourful than the next. Wylla Manderly was the strangest of them all, however, as her turquoise dress with embroidered mermaids was as flashy as her green-dyed hair. The Cassel cousins were dressed in grey dresses with white wolves. They rarely deviated from their colours, especially in the presence of important guests: the Cassels liked to show that they were part of the heritage of the House Stark and always dressed in the same way. This was also the case with Jeyne the cackler, although her light grey dress was a little less austere than that of the Cassels, with the blue plate of the House Poole appearing here and there along the fabric. Arya called her the cackler because that was what Jeyne Poole used to do: she cackled like a hen.

Unlike her ladies-in-waiting who were fond of the grey of the Starks, however, this was not the case with Sansa. In fact, Arya had never seen her dressed in snow white or grey. She preferred to wear her elegant light blue dresses that 'fitted harmoniously with her blue eyes', as she always liked to say, but which didn't look very Stark. With the contrast that her auburn hair gave to the blue silk, she actually looked more like a lady of Mother's house, and Sansa didn't even deny it. She had always preferred the south, where people were supposedly 'finer and prettier'.

Fine and pretty is how she could have described her big sister, who did everything well and beautifully as expected of her. Fine and pretty was her hair, fine and pretty was her laughter, fine and pretty was the red rose she finished embroidering.

“Congratulations, Lady Sansa, once again this is a most delicate work. Your lady mother will be most proud of your constant progress.” Septa Mordane announced with this same proud tone that Arya knew her to take only for her older sister. _And the fool smiles like a princess. It's only a stupid handkerchief!_

The care Mordane took for her sister's work made her aware of her own. Could she herself describe her figure as a flower, when the lines that were supposed to symbolise the stem were embroidered crooked and those of the petals were misshapen? It was not fair, Sansa did everything better than she did as a perfect lady. It wasn't her fault that she was not as good at doing those useless tasks. Nibbling her lip and trying to calm her frustration, she nevertheless persevered when she saw Lyarra Dustin, sitting right next to her, struggling with the task.

Arya still found it hard to believe that the latter was now her lady-in-waiting, especially as she was not the only one: Eddara Tallhart was also sitting next to her and she seemed even more focused than Lyarra, which was no mean feat given the diligence of the heiress of Barrowton. She still didn't really know what to do with these two. Jon had told her to be polite and attentive with Lyarra and Father had told her to do the same with Eddara. Lyarra was nice and fun despite being a bit of a perfect lady like Sansa, so it wasn't that difficult to listen to her brother, but Eddara was quiet and formal. Some would say boring, but she would be careful not to express it, otherwise Mother or Mordane would soon have reminded her of good manners. Struggling to fight against her parasitic thoughts, her gaze turned distractedly to her two neighbours.

Lyarra was really pretty. She looked a lot like her mother, Lady Barbrey, although she was not as intimidating as her. They were the same age, but Arya did not feel the same kind of distress in her new companion that she sometimes felt. People often compared her to Sansa, especially Mordane, who was always extolling her sister's supposed merits as a lady of the House Stark… But where Arya felt awkward, Lyarra was gracious. She had the same kind of grace that had always been the prerogative of Mother or Sansa, but there was also the same cold, dignified aura that her mother had shown.

Eddara was in a way the opposite of Lyarra. She had nothing of Lyarra's striking beauty or grace. She was actually a bit more like her on that side, but she didn't seem any more reluctant than Lyarra to do ladies' tasks. She didn't look much like her father, let alone her older brother Benfred, which was no bad thing because Arya had concluded that she hated him for the humiliating words he had worn this morning to Jon in front of everyone. Eddara was small, even smaller than she was, but perhaps it was because of her mother, Lady Branda Hornwood. Come to think of it, the Tallhart cousins were more than cousins, as their fathers and mothers were brothers and sisters respectively.

In any case, both of them took pleasure in their embroidery, taking advantage of the calm and silence, and displaying, more than Arya would ever do in such moments, more or less fulfilled and satisfied airs. _I could never get used to these stupid things._

The three of them sitting in the silence to embroider must have looked as silly as Sansa and her cackling girls. Especially as they were dressed the same way. Arya would have preferred to wear the same clothes as usual, but Mother had forbidden her to do so, even warning her not to embarrass their noble house in front of the lords of the North. Not that she would have done it anyway, she wasn't so stupid. But being covered in that ample lady's dress, which didn't suit her very much if it was up to her, made her movements strange. Jon had nevertheless assured her that she was beautiful, that the big grey wolves that ran through her dress made her eyes shine, so she didn't complain any more. And apart from Jon's compliments, although they were really very important, this was surely what had calmed her down. For she would always wear the colours of her house with pride.

“By the gods, how pretty! What on earth is it?”

Sansa's voice had pierced through the silence as she stood bent over one of the other occupants of the room.

“It is a crystal lily, Lady Sansa. It grows on the sides of the ridges of the Grey Hills exposed to the sun, at the top of the forest massifs of my home, at Karhold.”

It was Alys Karstark who answered her sister with dignity. Sansa was not only surrounded by her cackling girls and Wylla Manderly. Lord Rickard Karstark's youngest daughter had been sitting on one of the velvet benches in the large room, just a few steps away, embroidering in silence on her handkerchief. Lady Wynafrid, Wylla's elder sister, shared her discretion, since she was sitting on the same bench and neither of them had made their presence felt in the room. Not that they would have needed it to attract the attention of the other ladies, so beautiful and graceful were they.

Some of them spared them discreet glances, as Lyarra had done twice between embroidery stitch sessions. Eddara, too. Sansa, however, was the one who tried to attract their attention more than anyone else.

“Is it normal that its petals are so curved and spread out?” her sister asked again.

“Yes it is, especially in the summer.” Alys replied in this same humble tone. For a while, Arya thought she would return to her silence, but then Alys resumed, her eyes still focused on her embroidery. “Despite the fact that the crystal lily grows in the north, the climate and the inconstancy of the elements make its existence an eternal survival. But it's a resilient flower that faces winter even at the height of a blizzard. Just like the ladies of the House Karstark. Despite the winds of winter, we endure.”

She saw Sansa nod in fascination. But for all her sister's intelligence, Arya was sure that she had not grasped anything of the double meaning hidden in Alys' reply. But she knew, because she was looking out for Jon.

When she was little, Lord Rickard and his children had come to the castle. Unlike the rest of the siblings, the lord of Karhold had left his daughter, who had lived with them for a long time. At that time Arya had been too small to understand the stakes of this stay.

But she had finally understood, just as Alys and Jon had kissed under the heart tree of Winterfell. Alys had chosen her as her bridesmaid, while Robb had played the giver. It was only a game, or so she thought. But it had turned out to be much more than that. It was one of the reasons why Arya had always loved Alys. Rather than choosing Robb, as her lord father Lord Rickard had hoped by leaving her with them and her older brother, Alys had chosen Jon.

From the little she had learned from the events, Arya knew that Mother had been just as ulcerated as Lord Rickard and that bad things had happened. Eventually, Alys left the castle and returned home at Karhold. And she was coming back this very day, engaged by her father to that stupid Daryn Hornwood. She didn't even look happy. Arya remembered a bright, smiling girl who had once been shy but ended up wandering beside them in the halls of the castle, running and laughing and holding Jon by the hand. _Jon must be so sad._

“So they are like the roses in the glass gardens of our castle.” replied Sansa. “Mother says they don't grow anywhere else.”

“With all due respect, but your mother is mistaken, Lady Sansa. Winter roses might be rare, but they grow elsewhere in the north. A flower this free and impregnated with the north cannot be contained indefinitely in a glass garden, no matter how beautiful it may be.”

Arya looked at the flower she had been trying to embroider until then. Sansa could embroider any red southern flower she wanted, but if someone had to impose a beautiful flower on her, that was the one Arya would choose. No matter how misshapen its stem, no matter how twisted its petals, the frosty blue that made her complexion rich would always exude more than ever the North and its vast, cold lands.

A northern complexion that would never be taken away from them, had it been the flowers or even her.

Later on, getting out of the company of the other ladies was no easy task. Lyarra and Eddara had been diligent in listening to her instructions not to follow her, but as always, Mordane as well as Sansa had gone into great lengths to warn her. So what did she care if they went and told Mother? It was not as if Mother could punish her at her convenience. On the one hand, Mother had already done it several times and it hadn't changed anything, and on the other hand, Father would not allow her to be punished and assigned to her chambers during the stay of the Lords of the North. She had therefore found herself wandering around the castle, free from all confinement and constraint.

The exhibitions had long since been over and, with the sun approaching its white zenith, lunchtime was approaching, which, apart from wandering, left her with very little angle to occupy her free time. And Arya soon realised that even the wander was not as cheerful or even as easy as the other days, as the bursts of voices along her path followed one after the other, a veritable compendium of greetings and compliments.

“Young mistress!”; “How beautiful you are, young lady!”; “May the gods bless you, Lady Arya!”, they addressed her. Vassals and servants succeeded one another, no matter where she went. The barnyards turned out to be even worse than the high ones when it was normally the other way round.

Usually, most of these people would not even recognise her more than they would notice her, but today, all of them would contribute to the most gallant and cordial words. But Arya was certain that half of them didn't think so. They said she was beautiful, but all they could see was her rich and ample colourful dress. No one had ever worn such words in her favour without those obvious adornments that made her the daughter of their suzerain. No one, except Jon.

The answer to her problem immediately appeared to her, like Providence. _I have to find Jon._

Jon had promised her earlier in the morning a horse ride out of the castle. More precisely on Winter, his powerful destrier. Everybody in Winterfell knew that Winter was the fastest stallion in the North, the most indomitable too, since Jon seemed to be the only one who could ride him. And that meant only one thing: Arya could once again enjoy the incredible feeling of flying, as she always did when she rode on Winter.

Finding her brother, however, proved easier said than done, as she spent the next half hour looking in vain for him in the castle courtyards. Jon used to go training with his uncle Ser Arthur when the sun came up and then go to the training grounds, usually with Robb. But today, with so many guests in the castle, so many unknown faces and so many important people, everyone's usual schedules had been literally turned upside down. Arya did not even remember seeing Ser Arthur at all that morning.

However, as she wandered around, Arya managed to find a brother, even if he was not the right one.

“Touch! You're the wolf!”

It was Bran who had just exclaimed after touching the shoulder of one of his companions. He was standing there surrounded by other boys and playing wolf. This was a habit that wouldn't change. Normally she would have been there playing beside them. Arya naturally recognised the two sons of Harrol, the master blacksmith of the castle, Orik and Olyn, but also Beron Floyd, the son of Ser Alon, the Vice-Captain of the Guard. The others seemed a little higher born than these three, judging by their attire. Certainly sons or nephews of the lords in residence. Two of them must even have been Dustins, since they wore the same colours as Lyarra.

“Bran!” she manifested herself, in vain since she was completely ignored: none of the boys deigned to turn back to her call.

Moreover, caught up in their games, they even began to move away. Arya, slightly irritated, grabbed the sides of her dress and lifted them above her ankles and proceeded to run after Bran. She ran fast, so it wasn't very difficult.

“Bran, don't ignore me!” she repeated, blocking him.

She didn't leave him any choice anyway. Bran stopped in his game and made a sulky pout at her.

“Arya, you're disturbing us, what do you want?” Bran asked immediately.

“He's right, the girls should keep to themselves and do their girls' things!” continued one of the Dustin boys.

“Who are you, you idiot?” she harangued that daring one.

Provoked by her insult, the latter was about to answer her when his comrade in the same colours shut him up by putting his hand over his mouth.

“Shut up, Willem, didn’t you see who she is…?” he intervened in a low voice, but not enough for her not to hear him.

“I am Arya Stark.” she stated in his place. “And I go where I want whenever I want in my castle, and if you still think I should stay with the other girls, we'll see what my lord father says, you idiot!”

Of course, the face of the so-called Willem Dustin became pale at the mention of her father as well as at her suggestion; he then became silent and did not even dare to look at her, preferring his feet instead.

“Aren't you supposed to be with Sansa and Mordane?” her younger brother hastened to continue immediately afterwards.

“Gods please no.” she blew without delay. “I couldn't take it anymore.”

The gleam of understanding in Bran's eyes and his quick nod of agreement pleased her. Apart from Jon and Robb, Bran was one of the few who understood her.

“So what do you want? Do you want to play?”

“No, I'm looking for Jon. I can't find him.”

“He's probably with Robb and Uncle Benjen.”

Both Robb and Uncle Benjen were in the Winter Throne Room with Father and many of the northern lords and ladies, so it was not possible. As a result, Arya clearly denied him both possibilities, which seemed to annoy her little brother. He must have been impatient to resume his games and he was not alone considering the nervousness of his peers.

“And I don't know where Ser Arthur is.” she added.

“And the library? Maybe he is with Elina? Did you check it out?”

The library, of course! Why hadn't she thought of it earlier, when the possibility was almost obvious? Maybe because she didn't like books. _But Jon does love them._

She had the decency to give her little brother an expression that was both ashamed and indebted to him. “Thank you Bran.” she whispered to him as she kissed his cheek and hurried back to the high courtyards, leaving the boys to their games. They had already started again before she left.

She ignored as gracefully as she could the solicitations of the people of the castle that she passed on her way, giving them nods when she was forced to do so, and headed towards the citadel while keeping her dress level to her calves. Stumbling in front of so many people would be a bad omen, even for her. She quickly crossed the paved courtyard at the foot of the citadel, nimbly dodging tables, screens, carriages, people and animals, and climbed the high stone pavement leading to the drawbridge of the right wing of the dungeon. She then rushed into the castle, ignoring the calls of some guards who seemed to want to direct her or, on the contrary, to stop her. Not that they would have had the right to do so.

It wasn't until she arrived in front of the library quarters of Winterfell that she realised she was out of breath. Winterfell was certainly large, often in a good way because it was a place where one could play hide and seek or wolf, but sometimes its size proved to be an exhausting obstacle to overcome.

As soon as she crossed the threshold of the heavy, high wooden door reinforced with iron hinges and frames, the ambient sounds, which were a tangle of all kinds of noise, disappeared. The fresh air outside also gave way to the characteristic stale smell of parchment and old books. Arya walked calmly forward, being careful not to make the door squeak excessively or slam it accidentally. Maester Luwin had already scolded her for coming in like a fury when Bran was attending his heraldic lesson. So she had learns hers and had always been silent once she got there.

She walked slowly forward and looked carefully to the right and left. The library of Winterfell was very large, with dozens of rows of filled and stored shelves filling its vast surface. Here and there, especially on the sides and at the end of the aisles, small spiral wooden stairs led up to the upper floors: the library was in fact arranged over several floors. Four, to be precise. Taking one of the stairs when she was sure that the first floor was deserted, she went up to the second floor.

The sound of two voices immediately came to her, including the voice of the person she had been trying to find for far too long. But the smile that had already been woven on her lips faded away as soon as she recognised the timbre of the second voice. A timbre as severe as it was feminine.

“Arlī sylurūs, Iōnos! Lo jollōragon rāelā, aderī rhaenilā.”

At the corner of a row and sitting in front of a table covered with documents was Jon. He was not alone, as none other than Elina Paenymion was standing in his back looking at what he was writing. Judging by his expression, Jon did not look very happy.

“I can't!”

Jon's sudden protest was immediately nipped in the bud by a shrill blow from the Paenymion's wooden ruler on the table.

“Valyriō ȳdrās!” she scolded him instantly.

Without really shouting, Arya felt all her severity in her short reply. Silent for a moment, Arya finally saw Jon sigh before answering in that same strange tongue that Elina had just spoken. Without knowing much about it, the little Stark girl guessed without any trouble what tongue it was because she had already heard it a lot from Jon before. It was High Valyrian.

“Konir sagon kostos daor! Syt ynot qopsys issa, Elinā. Valyrīha iksan daor…”

“Ryptegon iā rȳbagon usōvarys jaelan daor, Iōnos. Rāelās.”

“Elinā…! Skoro syt va moriot kōzio iksā…?”

Jon's final reply provoked a sharp snigger from the lady but she did not respond, so Jon seemed to resign himself to returning to his work and silence fell again. This was the moment that Arya chose to witness her presence.

“Jon…?”

“Lady Arya, haven't you ever been taught that it is deeply discourteous and rude to interrupt a lesson?”

As she had feared, it was by no means Jon who answered first: Elina had turned to her not even a second after her voice had emerged from her hideout. Although that same foreign and exotic timbre remained, her voice was as clear and singing when she spoke in the common tongue as it was when she spoke in the tongue of the dragons.

Lady Elina Paenymion, as she was called, came from very far away, from the powerful Free City of Volantis, across the Narrow Sea, the largest city in the known world. _Pae for patience in Valyrian_ , she remembered. But patience didn't seem to be Elina's greatest quality, and Arya noticed this especially when she was giving her lessons to Jon. Her greatest quality remained her beauty. Jon had told her that Elina was at least a decade older than Father and Mother, but it was hard to believe this since she seemed so young.

Furthermore, Jon had explained to her that Elina belonged to one of the most powerful families of the Old Blood of Volantis, which descended from the Dragon Lords of the old times; hence Arya enjoyed imagining that Elina was looking like her favourite heroine, Queen Visenya Targaryen. Just like her, the Paenymion had that long silvery hair reminiscent of Old Valyria and those intimidating violet eyes that glowed so easily in anger when she was upset.

In some ways she looked like Jon, although Jon's eyes were darker and indigo where Elina's were lighter and magenta. For a while, Arya had even assumed that Elina might actually have been Jon's real mother, but Jon had denied it when she asked him: his mother had died in childbirth in Dorne, at the end of King Robert's rebellion. In truth, she had been deeply relieved by his answer. She knew that it was not fair to Jon not to have a mother, but the idea that a potential or past mistress of Father would be living in the castle made her feel deeply uneasy.

“Can I help you, Lady Arya, or are you just here to disturb the concentration of your brother?”

Arya blushed under the steady gaze of the Valyrian woman. The questions she had just asked her might have seemed cold, but the tone of her voice and the laughing gleam in her eyes indicated otherwise. Arya walked forward and met Jon's curious gaze, who smiled at her.

“I just wanted to ask Jon something, Elina…” she replied, and immediately corrected herself. “I mean, Lady Paenymion.”

Elina laughed a little and took a step back to entirely reveal Jon to her.

“Well, go ahead then, Lady Stark.”

Eager yet shy, Arya moved closer to Jon, who looked at her attentively. Something compelled her to come and whisper in her brother's ear, probably Elina's amused look which made her a little too aware of herself.

“Have you spoken to Father?” she whispered to him.

If he didn't seem to understand her question, a glimmer of realisation spontaneously lit up her brother's bright violet eyes.

“No, not yet,” he replied just as low. “As you can see, I'm very busy. Elina won't let me go until I'm done. You'll have to wait…”

Naturally, this response was not at all to her liking. If Jon spoke to Father too late, it was also possible that he would refuse. It would be frowned upon for two of his children to be absent from the most important activities of the day.

“You can always ask him in my stead,” added her brother. "It doesn't change anything if you tell him that I know about it.”

She nodded, satisfied with the suggestion. Jon was right, it shouldn't make much difference.

“If you don't need anything else, can we go on, Lady Stark?” Elina asked, and Arya answered with a vigorous nod. “Good. Sesīr rāelās, Iōnos.”

The next moment she left the library to go to Father, leaving Jon and Elina to their Valyrian lessons.

The path was not as exposed to the crowds as before, largely because she did not leave the keep and simply took the large stone footbridge that linked the right wing of the keep to its main part. The footbridge was a large corridor covered with a high roof. Only two massive windows stood on either side in the centre of it, overlooking the paved courtyard and the high walls of the citadel.

Looking down was always very impressive; from here people looked so small. In spite of Mother's lectures, these two glass openings to the outside proved to be two of the starting points for Bran's vertiginous journeys, when he only had in mind to climb the roofs of the castle and reach its peaks.

Jon wasn't the only one who was hard to find during her wander. Strangely enough, she had not seen Father either, who should have been in the presence of the other lords of the North in the Winter Throne Room. He was no more to be found in the immense Godswood of Winterfell than in the deep crypts of their family. It was with this knowledge in mind that Arya went to his quarters. If he wasn't somewhere else, then he must have been there.

The empty corridors that greeted her when she arrived on the floor of her father's personal quarters were as much a bad sign as the absence of guards like Ser Alon Floyd or Ser Martyn on the doorstep of his office. But when she realised that the door was unlocked, Arya suddenly felt the temptation to go snooping through his personal belongings. The temptation was too strong for her to resist, hence Arya unscrupulously chose to go in rather than to turn back. _Besides, if the door is open, then it means that Father is not far away and will soon return._

Arya could see something obvious again: Father's quarters, though less well arranged and clean than Mother's, were certainly less messy and dusty than Maester Luwin's, which she had always considered the biggest mess in the whole castle.

The first thing she thought of doing was to sit on Father's seat. The surface of his desk stretched out in front of her, covered with books and parchment. A small open inkwell with a feather dipped in it was placed on top of a pile of paper to keep it from draughts, which reinforced her feeling that the absence of Father was temporary. Not far away was the large wolf's head stamp from the House Stark, the tool used to strike the wax of Father's lordly seals. It was on this same comfortable chair, in front of this same desk and with this same stamp that the Warden of the North signed his decrees.

Her eyes drifted over the walls and furniture, enjoying the almost royal view of the place. Many trophies were fixed to the walls, including the head of the huge shadowcat that Robb and Jon had managed to slay. But no object caught Arya's attention more than her father's massive sword, which was attached to its wall bracket. It glowed so dark and ashen that it looked black, its metallic surface being covered with those strange moiré shades so characteristic of Valyrian steel: Ice, the most majestic sword she had ever seen if she left Dawn aside, dominated all the other objects here with its size and splendour.

It was often said that Ice was the Sword of the Kings of Winter. Cradled by legends, it had been wielded in battle by most of the Kings in the North and the Lords of Winterfell after them, since Old Valyria donated it to the House Stark thousands of years ago. However, she had never seen Father handle it once: he had only ever carried it like a cane on special occasions, and the people in the castle tended to say that the sword was made for everything except fighting. However, Jon had told her that Ice was indeed a sword made for war, and that Father had even wielded it during the war against the Ironborn. She had doubted this, until Father allowed Jon to wield it. She still remembered that day, Jon wielding this blade that was far taller than he was.

Before she even realised it, she had already tiptoed over and leaned on the back of Father's chair, fetching as best she could the huge hilt of the legendary Valyrian greatsword of the House Stark. If Jon could lift and wield it so easily at just thirteen years old, then the blade couldn't be that heavy. She knew this for sure when she actually lifted the greatsword from its wall bracket and held it over her head.

Gods, she felt at that moment as if she was almighty, the tip of the sword almost touching the ceiling! She felt mighty like Visenya Targaryen or Nymeria of Ny Sar! Perhaps she could even become the Queen in the North and punish all the villains who mocked her. What was certain was that she would take Jeyne the cackler's head off her shoulders, then the head of that stupid Benfred Tallhart who thought he could humiliate Jon and get away with it. By the way, she would also decapitate the pretentious Daryn Hornwood. That way Jon and Alys could be happy together again. Finally, she would behead the nasty Mordane who thought she was so perfect, and her stupid sister who thought she was even more perfect. Well, unless her sister begged for mercy and made herself humble.

Ice still remained quite heavy, and she almost stumbled under the counterweight of the blade. Not being able to really handle it as she had seen Jon do, Arya turned back to put it exactly where she had found it. _I must not let Father catch me with his sword without his permission, he would punish me for sure!_

That was when she found it.

It was well hidden, in one of Father's large sealed trunks, the key to which she had found in a drawer in his desk; buried under a mountain of dust and books, lying warm at the bottom of a small box filled with what Arya concluded was white sand. _What is this?_

 _It_ was all clear and all white, its smooth surface emitting in the light like a milky metallic or diamond reflection that evoked the appearance of Ser Arthur's sword. But far from being a sword, the supposedly immaculate object was not, with almost imperceptible blood red veins running across its polished surface as if _it_ were alive. _It_ was big, big and very heavy for its size, like the pieces of obsidian or basalt that lined the alleys and walls of the volcanic cavities beneath the castle in which Bran and she had wandered; and like a piece of obsidian, _it_ seemed strangely hot against the palms of her hands. The white sand of the box in which _it_ had rested seemed to have kept _it_ warm as in an incubator.

Only then did Arya realise what she was holding in her hands. Her eyes wide open, her mouth aghast in the silence and shock of the realization, she stared at it without blinking, while the daylight came to reveal the scaly gradations of its surface. She knew what it was. There could be only one answer. Its oval shape was unmistakable, its heaviness as well as its large size, which must have been twelve or thirteen inches long. _A dragon egg._

But when? How? Why? Since when did Father hide a dragon egg in his trunk and why? Didn't they belong to the kings and queens of the House Targaryen? What was she going to do now that she had found it? What would Father do? Would he punish her? No, it would be worse, she knew it. Father would kill her! He would deprive her of games and outings for the rest of her life. She absolutely had to put that egg back where she found it.

That's what she was going to do when she heard the hinges of the front door of Father's quarters slamming violently, the one that opened onto the staircase. Feeling her guts twisting and her blood leaving her face in fear, Arya felt the imminent need to flee and hide. Rising up on her trembling little legs, the little Stark girl hid in the shade of the small cellar that juxtaposed Father's office. It was too late, however, for her to realize that she still had the egg in her hands and the box on the floor of the office.

The next moment, Ser Arthur Dayne entered the office with a bang, almost literally breaking down the door in his path. Father and Uncle Benjen appeared in turn, but more quietly.

“Arthur, please,” she heard from her uncle. “You are being unreasonable.”

“I've heard enough from you, Benjen Stark, so be quiet. You are not the one I want to hear from.” the Dornishman replied without delay.

“Ser Arthur, please, you must calm down. We may attract more attention and this is certainly not the right time.”

“Calm down? Attract attention? Enough is enough, Lord Stark!”

From where she was standing, Arya could clearly see the three men, which allowed her to see the furious expression of the knight of the House Dayne. Arya had never seen him so expressive and furious. Nor had she ever seen Uncle Benjen so sad and worried. Father definitely seemed the calmer of the three.

“And what do you want to do? What exactly do you want me to do? The boy will never set foot in Winterfell again and Ser Helman understood the necessity.”

“Do you honestly think that's enough? You disappoint me, Lord Stark. With every day that passes, you disappoint me more and more. Is the man who succeeded in overthrowing the Targaryen dynasty the same as the coward standing in front of me?”

“Watch your words, Ser Arthur. I have deigned to give you a lot of freedom but I will not receive insults from you.”

“Good. Then transpose this philosophy to your nephew, by all the gods!”

 _Father has a nephew?_ She didn't know any children from Uncle Benjen. These were the first thoughts that went through Arya's mind as she held the dragon egg tight to her chest. Unnoticed, the box still laid open in a corner of the room.

“Your little games must stop, and quickly!”

“My little games? How dare you, you who have been plotting behind my back for so long? Do you think I'm so ignorant that I haven't noticed yours and Lady Paenymion's shenanigans over the last few years? That I haven't noticed your bird going back and forth incessantly?”

“I do what has to be done, unlike you. If you deigned to do your duty and take on the responsibilities that fall to you, we wouldn't be here! How long will you wait without doing anything while the prince's honour is so scorned? I have tolerated the petty attitude of this wife of yours, but that I will not accept!”

The more the two men spoke, the less Arya understood. Who was Father's nephew? What were they talking about? A prince? _Mother?_ And what did all this have to do with Ser Helman? She held her breath and prayed to make as little noise as possible, the gap in the door leaving only a hint of her eye appearing.

Father's face seemed torn by frustration.

“Do you realise our current situation? What more do you want me to do?”

“Isn't it obvious? Tell him the truth.”

“No.”

“By the Seven, tell him the truth!”

“I won't. It's out of the question!”

“You will, or I will, Lord Stark, I warn you!”

“And I warn you, Ser Arthur. Try it, and I'll have you removed from my castle.”

Ser Arthur immediately slammed his hand on Father's desk. He looked enraged. Uncle Benjen was completely taken aback.

“Ned…?” Uncle Benjen whispered. “Are you out of your mind?”

The silence strangely fell back, Ser Arthur's spontaneous rage having dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. When he resumed, he seemed calm. Calm but weary.

“It is no longer stubbornness, it is stupidity, madness. Your ambivalence is absurd. He is not a bastard and he will never be a bastard. I will tell you, Lord Stark: this boy has pride. Much more than you might ever expect. And he is not one to forgive easily. The longer you delay telling him the truth, all the truth, and the more he will hate you.”

Arya had begun to shiver. She didn't know when it had started, or why it had started. Was it her improvised and clandestine situation which put her under tension and made the blood pulsing in her veins? No. She knew where the shivers and the heartbeats came from; the same ones that were just now overtaking Father.

“I understand it, now… It is very clear: you are afraid. You are afraid of losing him, you are afraid he will hate you forever, you are afraid he will disown you for what you have done. But this is the only possible solution and you know it. He deserves to know. He needs to know. It is time.”

“He is too young…”

Uncle Benjen put one hand on Father's shoulder.

“He is not too young, brother. Ser Arthur is right, he needs to know while there is still time. If you postpone it for too long, he will blame you. You won't be the only one to assume it, you know? We will be there too, at your side. Together.”

The silence was leaden. Father didn't even seem to be able to say anything anymore, the spite painted on his face appearing as clearly as the white sun in the middle of Summer.

“I need time… to think.”

“Think, then.” Ser Arthur replied straight away, as he headed for the exit. “But not too long.”

Arya fervently wished that he would find his way out and vanish from sight. But Providence did not do so, as his violet gaze fell distractedly on the open box lying in front of the trunk. For a few seconds, his haggard look suggested that he did not understand what he was seeing.

“Ser Arthur, what is it?”

“Where has it gone?”

Uncle Benjen seemed to want to answer, but turned pale when his eyes fell on the box. Arya's heart began to beat very fast, knowing that they were looking for the object she was holding close to her at this very moment.

“Lord Stark, did you touch it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The egg, Lord Stark!”

“The egg is in–…”

Like her uncle, her father became quieter than a grave as soon as his gaze fell on the box. But unlike Uncle Benjen and Arthur, who stood frightened in front of the empty box, and as soon as he realised that the large trunk was no longer sealed, Father rushed to his desk and violently opened the drawer to look for the key ring. In vain, since it was she who had it. What was she supposed to do from now on? Should she come out of hiding? What would Father or Arthur do? She had heard far too much, things she knew she should never have heard, terrible things. And the egg in her hands…

“The key is no longer there…” Father whispered with terror.

“How is that even possible, Ned? We've only been away for a few minutes!”

Then Father became calm.

“Lord Stark, if this egg has been found, then a spy was aware of its existence and is in the castle.” said Ser Arthur. “If we lose this egg…”

“That won't happen!” Father retorted. “Benjen, go and find Martyn. Tell him to order the guard to seal all the castle entrances as quietly as possible. This thief can't be far away, we'll find him.”

“It will be done, brother.”

Arya could then have stayed in the cellar and waited for everything to happen. She could have waited until the office was empty to put the dragon egg back in its box without anyone knowing. No one would have suspected her and everything would surely have been back to normal.

But the distress in Father's voice urged her to reveal herself, which she did while holding her breath. When they heard the creaking of the cellar door and noticed her, with the dragon egg in her arms, Arya felt terror dawning inside her as never before.

Ser Arthur's bewildered expression gave way to an expression of anger so fierce that she had never seen one like it; the haunted and pale expressions of Father and Uncle Benjen - these too she had never seen.

And the silence, as heavy as lead.

“Arya, what have you done?”

She was unable to find her voice before Father's eyes. When he approached her, she even feared for a moment that he would hurt her in order to discipline her. But he did not, and knelt down, staring for a while at this heavy, meaningful white egg, before grabbing her by the shoulders.

“What did you hear…” he asked her in an imperious tone. His demand, he accompanied it with a firm hold, while he shook her spontaneously. “Speak, Arya.”

His grey eyes, the same as hers, were fixed on her without blinking. They were as sharp as blades, as if Father saw deep inside her. It was as if she was a mouse, petrified by a cat. She couldn't even find the strength to sweeten her words, or to lie. _There is only one bastard in Winterfell._

“Jon…?”

Father sighed piteously at her reply, while Uncle Benjen put a hand to his face. Ser Arthur, for his part, seemed even angrier, if that was even possible.

“You Starks and your manias for finding yourselves in places where you shouldn't be.” he growled under his breath.

The former Kingsguard of the House Targaryen did not notice Father's grimace as Father had his back to him. Was he really a 'former' Kingsguard? Arya could not understand. Who was Jon really? If he was Father's nephew, then he was not her brother? _But a prince?_

“Arya!” then thundered Father suddenly, shaking her again for a second to bring her back to them. Frozen and mute, he naturally got her attention. “You shall tell no one about this. Do you hear me, my daughter? Swear to me that you will tell no one!”

“Y-Yes, Father.”

“Answer again! To whom will you tell?”

“To no one!”

She didn't realise she was crying until Father hugged her and she felt the pressure of the egg against her chest. She tried to stem the flow of her tears, but the multitude of conflicting emotions caused by her foolishness as well as by the truth left her helpless and vulnerable. And Father's low voice, almost a whisper, came to rock her with a flood of terrible stakes.

“Promise me, Arya…” She promised. “Neither to your mother, nor to your sister, nor to your brothers.” She promised. _But if Jon is not my brother…_ “Nor to no one.”

To no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any translation of Valyrian sentences, see here ⬇️ :  
>  (⬇️ To read my End Notes, see further down ⬇️)
> 
>  **Arlī sylurūs, Iōnos! Lo jollōragon rāelā, aderī rhaenilā.** = Try again, Jon. If you keep searching, you'll find it quickly.
> 
>  **Valyriō ȳdrās !** = Speak in Valyrian!
> 
>  **Konir sagon kostos daor! Syt ynot qopsys issa, Elinā. Valyrīha iksan daor…** = It's not possible! It's far too hard for me, Elina. I am not Valyrian…
> 
>  **Ryptegon iā rȳbagon usōvarys jaelan daor, Iōnos. Rāelās.** = I have no desire to hear or listen to your excuses, Jon. Continue.
> 
>  **Elinā…! Skoro syt va moriot kōzio iksā…?** = Elina...! Why are you always so evil?
> 
>  **Sesīr rāelās, Iōnos.** = Resume now, Jon.
> 
> Concerning these sentences in Valyrian, they are authentic. I spent about two to three hours, maybe more, composing them using the tables of conjugations, the tables of gender and pronoun chords, and the tables of name transformations via Valyrian suffixes.
> 
> If you have any questions about the vocabulary used, chords and conjugations, don't hesitate to ask me, I could even explain to you in detail the work done.
> 
> But the most important thing to know is that Valyrian seems to be a SOV (Subject Object Verb) language, hence this syntactic order.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Bonjour everyone,
> 
> Thus concludes this chapter V of A Prince of Dragonstone.
> 
> Once again, the translation of this chapter proved to be very difficult. Perhaps as hard as the previous one. Forgive me if there are still mistakes or awkward expressions. If you have seen any and remember them, I would be very grateful if you point them out for me.
> 
> There is a lot of French expressions that I had to adapt in order to make them understandable to English speakers. I don't have any examples, but if I find any, I will add them here.
> 
> Returning to the text, some may have noticed that I said that the chapter would be around 40,000 words. This is in fact still the case. To be exact, the whole chapter should be around 60,000 to 70,000 words at the most, but I made the choice to cut the first part in half. It turns out that I had to cut those very same parts in half also. The story of my life. In short, this chapter is 24,000 words.
> 
> I am very happy with this first part of Jon's teenage years in the North. I tried to make Jon a PoV character as rich as the one in the book, and as full of emotion and intelligence as his older sister. You will have noticed that some of the structures in Jon's PoV are similar to the structures in Rhaenys' PoV. This is intentional, of course. The two are in fact very similar, but this is not surprising since they are brother and sister. The apple never falls far from the tree.
> 
> I also hope you enjoyed this Arya PoV , which is one of my favourite characters from the books. Among other goals, I wanted in this PoV to show how much Jon is part of her world. She loves him deeply, perhaps even to the point of being irrational, like when she claims that he is the only one who has told her that she is beautiful, which of course is not true. Arya is and always has been a key character in my projects for this story and I couldn't dissociate her from the evolution of Jon's character. However, I hadn't foreseen certain things in her PoV, which emerged as I was writing and which will, as you can imagine, have consequences for the course of future events.
> 
> A lot happened between Chapter II, which dealt with Jon's early childhood, and Chapter V, which deals with his adolescence. The most important of these was the prolonged stay of Alys Karstark, which caused the Starks a lot of trouble regarding the fact that Jon and she are in love, and that any relationship between the two was forbidden. Naturally, you will know more about this in the next chapter, which follows directly after this chapter, and which will focus on the massive Summer Banquet of Winterfell, among other things.
> 
> To finish, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I thank my friend Lexias from the bottom of my heart for his invaluable advice and support. Do not hesitate to leave me a small comment, which will make me very happy, and feel free to ask me questions or leave me critics. Take good care of yourself in these troubled health times,
> 
> And see you soon for the next chapter.
> 
> Etsukazu


	6. A Summer in a Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Summer Banquet of Winterfell.

**THE HIDDEN PRINCE**

About eighty years ago, the Seven Kingdoms had experienced the longest westerosi summer ever recorded by the Citadel. Although the fear of the eternal winter was firmly rooted in the minds of the people of Westeros, especially those in the north due to the age-old memories of the Long Night, it was not until the reign of King Maekar I of the Targaryen Dynasty that the enchanting idea of the eternal summer began to emerge in the minds. Most of the septons and other men of faith on the continent had given it the nickname of the Great Summer, an eternal period of abundance and divine emancipation; a period of absolution and perfection, when the incarnate gods would descend to this land to fulfil the wishes of mortals.

However, the religious infatuation of the Andals had quickly subsided, the Summer of Maekar having lasted six years and not one more. The winter that followed proved to be the cruellest that the Seven Kingdoms had ever known, and its memory persisted just as vividly even today for the sad events that, according to the books he had read, had been granted to it retrospectively: It had seen the tragic death of King Maekar I take place under the walls of Starpike and the long, sinister Red Spring. Some maesters had even claimed that it was by no means insignificant that the Mad King had been born at that dark time, that he too had brought winter in his wake.

Jon wondered if the maesters would ever talk about this Summer and the Winter that would follow. Seven years now that summer had been going on and no sign augured that it would end any time soon. Maester Luwin would often get lost in extrapolations on this subject and would predict at least two or three more years of summer, basing his calculations on dated and dusty sources. Sir Vayon Poole was the most fanciful of all at Winterfell and announced to anyone who would listen that summer would never come to an end, since it had none. His main argument, however irrelevant it may have been, was that for the seventh consecutive year, the North had the best harvest in its history: as Steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole had never been busier or more euphoric than during these festive times.

For the North was in a festive time. That evening and the night that was coming saw the holding of the Summer Banquet, a festive and traditional event in the North, celebrating the benefits of Summer and the blessing of the Old Gods. This was the reason why these banquets were usually held at night, on the sixth day of the sixth moon, when the moon was high in the sky and the green and blue shades of the northern lights danced in a celestial ball.

They shone with a thousand lights in the night skies, illuminating the diffuse and dark distance of the northern plains and the dizzying peaks of the castle. Here below, the hearth fires numbered in the thousands, forming like carpets of light in the middle of the alleys of Winterfell, and they shone as many as there were windows.

The solitude of the balcony on which Jon stood changed little from the sounds that reached him. The clamour and festive music from outside could be heard with ease, especially as he had plenty of time to watch the brawls and other circle dances being held from here, with the smallfolk having fun in tens - hundreds - around the many fires, dancing to the rhythm of the many travelling bards. They would celebrate Summer under the stars until dawn, enjoying the foodstuffs provided for this purpose and brought to the castle by the tons. And they were right to do so; the North, hard and cruel, would kill the weakest at the coming of Winter.

The music and the bursts of voices coming from inside again caught his attention and reminded him that he had come to the balcony to get away from it temporarily: the incipient drunkenness that had hit him during the feast and the ambient heat had almost gone to his head. He would have stayed alone longer if it had been up to him, but Jon knew that it was not acceptable for him to miss out on the annual social events of the castle when he was the second son of the lord of Winterfell.

Father or Uncle Benjen would probably not make any remarks to him if he slipped away, but Uncle Arthur would not hear it in the same way and would soon blame him for his negligence. Uncle Arthur would certainly tell him that it was not fitting for the heir of Dragonstone to ignore the rules of propriety of his castle, and that it began even before he inherited it. _He would continue to nurse me even if I sat on the Iron Throne._

Inhaling one last breath of fresh night air, he then returned to the castle's banqueting hall.

The very next moment Jon was once again immersed in the colours and festive atmosphere of the keep of Winterfell.

Summer banquets could sometimes be mind-bogglingly crowded, but to see most of the noble houses of the North within the castle walls was a new spectacle for him. And certainly for most of the high-born, young and old, judging by the collective excitement that could be seen in every glance. The great feast had already ended many minutes ago, but the long rows of tables covered with rich tablecloths and coats-of-arms were still abundantly covered with all kinds of fine food and many courtiers were still there.

Roasted or pie-dried beef generously sprinkled with horseradish, hearty and tasty mutton stews, colourful dishes with game meats, hare, venison, deer, partridge, but also cattle of all kinds; and even auroch dishes cooked on the spit, the most expensive and sumptuous meat in the North. And all this accompanied by the most delicious fish, seafood and candied summer fruits that did not even grow in the North, such as figs, dates, lemons and other citrus fruits from Dorne or Essos. Father and his bannermen had spared no wealth.

Lords and ladies courted, negotiated and ate wherever Jon could look. He noticed as many colourful dresses and outfits as there were noble coats-of-arms, and as many different looks as there were groups and clan origins among the Houses of the North. The noble families of the Neck were distinguished by their smaller and slimmer than usual figures, and the noble families of Andal blood could be recognised by the clarity of their hair, among other things. Like the Manderly and the Hornwood, the latter came mainly from the White Knife and the Sheepshead Hills. The members of the northern mountain clans were also quite distinctive due to their immense size and their equally imposing corpulence.

The banqueting hall was in turmoil and it was without neglecting the fact that a substantial part of its former occupants had left it, certainly to go to the Winter Throne Room where the ball was to take place. Judging by the absence of Father, Lady Catelyn, Uncle Benjen, Robb, and his other siblings, the Stark family had surely gone there.

But Uncle Arthur, who was still here, Jon certainly didn't miss him, and vice-versa. People would usually seek to court the legendary Sword of the Morning, but his uncle seemed particularly inaccessible and unfriendly. For the Dayne was sitting alone in his seat, away from any potential group, and people were obviously careful not to approach him.

When Jon noticed the glow of scepticism in the Dayne's purple eyes, he knew immediately that the latter would soon speak to him about his ceremonial inconstancy. Taking it upon himself, and knowing that there was no point in prolonging the situation, he approached his uncle and sat down beside him. Nevertheless, against all expectations, Uncle Arthur remained silent. He did not even look at him, his attention being lost somewhere in front of him. Was he even looking at anything in particular?

Once again sitting down and warm, the inactivity of silence made him realise that the wine he had consumed during the feast was still having an effect. It had not even been enough to make him forget the depressing events of the morning, let alone the awkward and disturbing situation of the opening of the banquet. Sitting at the table of the Lords of Winterfell like the rest of his family - apart from Arya, who for some strange reason was absent from the banquet - the glasses of wine had not changed the presence of Alys, sitting with her family a few metres away.

“A thirteen year old boy with as many responsibilities as you have should not get lost in drinking as you just did.”

Arthur put an end to his confused thoughts before he could put them in order. He still didn't look at him, but his tight jaw and steely gaze were enough signs for him to guess that his uncle was focused on him, and him alone.

And he was obviously waiting for an answer.

“It was only three cups, uncle…”

“I counted four. And these were not small cups.”

Jon refrained from pushing a breath of derision. Did they still have to go through this? Did he still have to endure a sermon from Arthur, and at the worst possible moment, for that matter?

“What's the point of counting…?” he mumbled, but he avoided grumbling. “This was a feast. People are eating and drinking.”

“And they have all seen you drinking four cups, and they observe and judge you in silence.”

 _The only one who judges me is you, uncle_ , he almost answered him. But his instinct and reason made him suspect that this was not quite true. And he didn't want to hold out the staff to be beaten. He thought he was past that age.

“Besides, tell me what were you doing out there _alone_? What did you think you were doing when you got out of the feast before it was over? Your departure was noticed by everyone.”

“I needed some air.” he replied half-tone.

Of course, Arthur did not hear it that way, judging by his disdainful sigh and nod. He exuded disapproval, but this was nothing new.

He knew it had been a mistake. A Stark who got up in the middle of the feast and unilaterally left the room without coming back was not appropriate. But why did it matter, after all? Arya's empty seat must have raised many more questions, and it wasn't as if he was a real Stark anyway. The fact that he was sitting between Robb and Uncle Benjen did not change anything. The contemplative and solitary heights of the balcony had proved much more pleasant.

“Anyway, you should be at the ball with the rest of your brothers and sisters.”

This time Jon didn't even bother to hide his scowl at the idea and even less bothered to answer his uncle. He had no desire to go to the damn ball. He didn't want to make a fool of himself, he didn't want to find no partner and he had absolutely no desire to see Alys dancing with that damned Daryn Hornwood.

“If you think that you can enjoy this banquet, as inebriated and sullen as you are, you are seriously mistaken, boy,” his uncle finally replied. “You must be inclined to be able to dance with the ladies and talk with the lords of your rank, and they must have before them a lord who is sober, thoughtful and receptive. Not a big barrel full of beer like the fat heap that we have as a king and even less a little boy who secludes himself on his balcony to mope around like a crying maiden.”

The anger that followed the shock once again almost made him say something regrettable. It was as if his uncle had never understood him, it was also as if he had never tried to understand him. It wasn't even his toxic comment about the King; everyone knew full well that Arthur Dayne had been Rhaegar Targaryen's closest friend and that he despised Robert Baratheon more than anyone else. But the way he commented on his behaviour was simply humiliating.

“Why should I dance with the ladies and chat with the lords of my rank? I'm not even a lord! Why can't I stay here without worrying about all this? Isn't that what you do, uncle?”

“But unlike you, I don't need to satisfy the mundane whims of ladies and lords to make myself known. This is not what is expected of me. When I dance, people die. That is what is expected of me. So consider yourself lucky to be in your place and concentrate on your duties before you worry about anything else, and even better, about what I do. I was one of seven sworn brothers of the Kingsguard. This is not your case.”

Sometimes Jon thought very sincerely that his uncle despised him. How could he not think so, when his opinion was so hasty and absolute that it allowed no response at all? He never let him do what he wanted and was always critical of him. He always had something to say, even when it couldn't be that important. It was so frustrating.

“If you had lectured the Mad King in the same way, then perhaps you would still be his Kingsguard and the kingdom would be better off.”

He didn't even have time to regret his words as he was overshadowed by his uncle's angry gaze.

“Is that all you are capable of answering? You know nothing except what your maester told you about him. And he doesn't know anything either. So think twice before you say that kind of filthy nonsense and avoid letting the alcohol speak for you, for all you're doing is proving my point,” the Dayne retorted dryly and in one fell swoop. “I didn't choose an idiot coupled with a loser as my squire. You are better than that.”

“Is that all I inspire you, Uncle? An idiot coupled with a loser?”

“And if so, what would you do? Pity yourself like a mud-covered beggar in Flea Bottom? Did you even understand a word I just said to you? You are the heir to Dragonstone. The world will not stop or wait for you while you lament your fate. Let the Seven be my witnesses, that is not what I expect from you. Do you honestly think that Lord Stark behaved as you do when he heard of the death of his father and brother? Pull yourself together. The Usurper will not entrust Dragonstone to a slack damsel. If you are to inherit this castle, you must deserve it.”

With his arguments now given, Arthur became as mute as before. And the background music played by the group of bards installed at the corner of the great hall did not change the leaden silence that reigned between him and the ex-Kingsguard. This time Jon simply did not dare to open his mouth any more, for fear that his elder would once again mortify him with his verb.

Perhaps, _perhaps_ , mentioning Aerys the Mad had been a mistake. Jon knew it was a sensitive subject for Uncle Arthur. He never spoke of it, but you didn't have to be a Grand Maester to know that Arthur didn't have him in his heart any more than the current Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. But to make him his scapegoat and the object of his vindictiveness was absolutely unjust. He had not chosen to be a bastard any more than he had chosen to be the lord of Dragonstone; all he had chosen, in all humility, was Alys.

And he was vilified for it.

Uncle Arthur had made his point, however, so Jon stood up. He didn't want to stay here any longer anyway.

“I'm going to the ball.” he said simply.

The knight didn't even bother to look at him, but his silence assured Jon that he had received the message. The next moment he left the room by the main door without even looking behind him, having had enough Arthur Dayne for the whole evening.

Jon realised, however, that he was really not in such a hurry to get to the Winter Throne Room. What could he do there, apart from making a fool of himself? Arthur may have mocked his fears, but they were well-founded. And yet, in spite of the fact that his heartbeat quickened as he approached, and in spite of the fact that the music in the ballroom became more and more perceptible, he continued.

Wide open, the doors of the Winter Throne Room were themselves already obstructed by the crowd. Ladies and lords were chatting there, hiding at first glance what Jon guessed to be the central dance area. Silently, he therefore discreetly entered through the mass of courtiers and reached one of the shady corners of the great hall, while the frescoes of light and atmosphere that was the Ball of Winterfell appeared before his very eyes in an instant.

Hundreds of people were there. From courtiers, lords, landed knights and ladies of high birth who had previously taken part in the feast, to the more humble visitors such as the household knights and other men-at-arms who made up the guards of the northern lords and who enjoyed a semblance of noble lineage ; and the castle's servants, who were just as numerous.

If the banqueting hall had already proved to be rich in colour, the Winter Throne Hall had nothing to envy it. The walls were covered with blazons and coats-of-arms of all kinds and colours. Manderly turquoise and Ryswell bronze predominated above all else, if one omitted Stark grey and wolves covering the dresses of the courtiers of all the houses directly vassal of the Starks and of the servants who came to serve ladies and lords in wine and beer mugs from the north.

Tables, upholstered seats and benches had been laid out in large numbers on all sides of the hall and framed the central, empty space, where many nobles of all ages were currently dancing in low line. Jon could easily distinguish Sansa, with the bright auburn sheen of her long, smooth hair shining in the glow of the candelabra and wall torches. She was beautiful, his little sister. Surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, she seemed to enjoy the festivities like a princess among her courtiers.

She was not the only Stark to look so princely. Robb stood out from the crowd because of his physical appearance. If he did not dance like their sister and was therefore not in the centre of the room, his long, elegant red hair was just as distinctive. On the fringes of the dance space, a number of young lords and ladies seemed to be seeking his favour. It was at this point that their eyes met and Robb took his leave from his peers.

The next moment, his older brother made his way to him.

“You took your time, Jon,” he said without waiting, coming to shake his shoulder with one hand. “I was beginning to think you wouldn't come.”

And Robb was right, because if it had been up to him, he wouldn't be here now, and his brother's unreadable look made him suspect that he had understood it.

“Arthur didn't let me.” he replied mechanically.

“And Ser Arthur was right, Jon. Look at all these people; it's an opportunity of a lifetime to get known with such ease. It would be a shame to miss it.”

It was an opportunity for Robb, but not for him. He didn't formulate it, but he didn't think any less of it. It didn't matter what the future might hold for him, because it wouldn't change the facts: If he was made lord of Dragonstone, he would surely never see any of the courtiers present there again; if he remained a bastard and ended up inheriting nothing, then it didn't matter what image he might try to build up among them all, for his only destiny in the North would depend on Father's good will, and then Robb's, to guarantee him a place of influence in the guard or stewardship of Winterfell. And this destiny only filled him with dread.

“Perhaps…” he finally said, for want of a better answer. “How did you even manage to find me in this crowd?”

If the latter had understood that he was trying to change the subject, he did not show it, preferring to display an amused smile that clearly showed his sarcasm.

“Are you really asking the question? With your silver strand of hair, the only way you could go unnoticed would be to go into the snowdrifts at the foot of the castle.”

 _Obviously_ , how stupid he was. It wasn't as if this strand was the most obvious mark of his bastard blood, all the more so when he was the only one in the North to possess such attributes, Elina and Arthur aside.

That said, far from being offended by his brother's remark, he shared his spontaneous laughter. And as often the case, it didn't take much more than that for his worries to dissipate. His brother possessed this magic. It was frustrating at times, but more often than not, it was salutary.

Far from letting him go, Robb then put his arm around his shoulder as their attention slipped away towards the ball.

Naturally, his attention returned to their sister, who continued to dance the low line in the midst of many others. They followed the slow rhythm of the minstrels who played on the fringe, on a wooden stage that had been set up especially for them. One of them even played the carillon, the fingerboard instrument emitting a crystalline sound that Jon had literally never heard in the castle before.

How did Lady Catelyn managed to find a carillon player so far north, and how did she even manage to get the instrument into the Throne Room? Jon was still wondering. The Lady of Winterfell could be many things, but a poor organizer she was not.

“Sansa has spent the last two weeks anticipating this evening,” Robb then explained without hiding his amusement. “I know you haven't been around much at family dinners because of your training with Ser Arthur, but just so you know. She couldn't keep quiet for two minutes at a time, it was hellish.”

“If you say that, I can't even imagine what Arya thought,” he replied, and his amusement echoed that of his elder brother. The image of a frustrated Arya in the middle of a meal while Sansa was rambling on about a social event could only be funny. But this distracting thought didn't last long, as the mention of Arya brought up a much more worrying subject. “Where is she, by the way?”

“If I knew, I would have told you already," Robb replied, taking the same concerned tone as he did. "Father refused to answer me when I asked him, and Mother... She was actually as surprised as I was. To be perfectly frank, I thought that at least you would know where she was.”

“We had planned to ride together on Winter, along the Acorn Water, but she never showed up at the stables. And the fact that she was absent from the feast…”

The gleam in his brother's eyes made him suspect that they had come to the same conclusion.

“Father has punished her, obviously,” Robb finally stated, before he laughed, straddling the line between spite and hilarity. “What could she have done that was so serious that Father, of all people, would punish her like that?”

“I don't know, but if he had her locked up on the day of the Summer Banquet, she must have done something awful.”

It must have been because her brother was in a joyful mood, because his answer only made him more amused.

“She will never change,” his brother concluded with a big smile. “And by the way, neither will you.”

What did he mean by that, that was the question he would have liked to ask at that very moment. Unfortunately, Jon did not have the opportunity to do so, for thunderous tones and numerous outbursts of voices from one of the corners of the great hall, near the stage where the musicians were giving the rhythm of the dances in low line, came to put an end to most of the activities that were taking place in the throne room.

“Enough is enough! We want the dances!” they heard through the commotion.

“The dances, for fuck's sake!”

Unsurprisingly, Lord Jon Umber and his son were among those who started the uproar. They were not alone; about fifteen other men formed the ranks of this exuberant group. The largest of them was Lord Theo Wull, one of Father's friends, or simply Theo Wull, since it was not the custom of the chiefs of the Northern Mountain clans to award themselves a single title of nobility. Uncle Benjen had once told him that they had more of the wildlings than they were willing to admit, and he was willing to believe it, since their dress and coarse features made the most massive of them look like wildlings' chiefs.

“Abel the Bard!” Theo Wull then exclaimed.

His call was not unanswered, since the aforementioned, who was apparently already present on the stage, came to meet his peers. His elegant long black cape, decorated with blood-red embroideries, caught his eye more than anything else. Dressed as he was, it was as if he fancied himself a Targaryen prince.

“Sing, Abel the Bard!” the chief of the Wull clan continued, his deep, stony voice rising above all others. “The song!”

Lords and ladies both had stopped dancing on the dance area and confusion due to the sudden lack of music settled in among the crowd. For a few seconds, Jon met the gaze of Father, who was standing on the other side of the room, beside Lady Catelyn. He had spotted him and Robb. Everyone seemed to be waiting in anticipation as best they could, wondering what might be going on. A period of latency that was soon shortened.

“I dedicate this epic ballad to the House Stark of Winterfell, to the First Men and the damsels of the North, may they be blessed,” said the artist as he grasped his lute. “The Song of the Winter Rose.”

The silence then dissipated under the bard's skilful fingers and the catchy melody emitted by his lute. Quickly followed by his fellow violists, flutists and bagpipers, he then began his singing to the enthusiasm of the crowd.

_“A young man descended, from the far northern lands, at the dare that an old wolf had addressed to him. The first one was a bard, landless, valiant and strong, the second was a king, landed, mighty and proud…”_

As the music took its course, the noble audience became calm while the bard told his story. The Greatjon and Theo Wull's band became much calmer, just like the noble audience, and while the bard sang, most of the courtiers still occupying the dance area went to the sides of the hall and to the tables to rest and refresh themselves; the others remained there, probably waiting for the dances to resume, as in the case of Sansa and her ladies. All then listened to a melodious and epic tale that none seemed to have heard before, except for Theo Wull, whose sarcastic expression was confusing.

But his confusion lasted no longer when, far from pursuing an agreed-upon serenade one might expect from a court minstrel, and under his suddenly rising melody Abel the Bard began the most provocative, saucy and bawdy song that Jon had ever heard in any of the Winterfell rooms. More and more voices gradually began to be heard, as soon as it became clear that the story was about the Starks.

“ _Oh the rascal and his damsel, to the King of Winter’s daughter… into their bunk in the castle, he did tightly squeezed her crupper!_ ”

A thunderous wave of laughter swept through the room without delay. Lords and ladies to the right and left began to laugh at the bard's provocative and idiotic words at the top of their lungs. But there were also many who made no secret of their outrage, as Lady Catelyn did once she understood the theme of the song. Jon could have seen her livid and outraged face among a thousand others, and he could not hold back a hilarious breath from escaping from between his lips. He heard the same reaction on his right, and his gaze found that of his older brother. Of the two of them, however, it was Robb who laughed first.

“Look at our sister, she doesn't know where to be anymore.” the heir of Winterfell commented between two laughs.

Sansa was even more baffled than her mother, Robb was telling the truth. She almost made it hard to see, if it wasn't for the hilarity of the situation. They weren't the only ones, though, since the lords behind the change of atmosphere seemed to tease Father and laughed endlessly at him. But against all odds, Father then seized Lady Catelyn, to her great surprise, and immediately led them into a waltz dance which provoked a comical commotion, a concert of laughter, whistles and shouts.

The crowd followed them and from then on took over the centre of the room, with dozens of courtiers dancing in the same way as Father and Lady Catelyn: in pairs, as was the custom of the commoners. As red as her hair when it shone under the white northern sun, Jon saw his little sister quickly take refuge on the fringes of the room, accompanied by her friends and followers. The chaos and electric atmosphere of the party quickly replaced the noble order of Winterfell's receptions with a wink of the eye.

Judging by the hundreds of excited and playful expressions, especially those of most of the young people his age, Jon was almost certain that half of them had been waiting for that very moment. But how could he doubt it, when most of them immediately began copying their elders and went off to court the partner they wanted?

Within a few minutes, most of the pairs were already formed, several of them having already joined the dance area, as was the case with his friend Cley Cerwyn and his partner. The heir of Castle Cerwyn was indeed the first to start, with at his arm Lady Clarisse Slate, the eldest daughter of Lord Robar Slate of Blackpool. She was a pretty young girl with an Andal appearance, her colourful outfit and her blond hair shining under the light of the big chandelier and the torches. A few feet away from these two, the Mormont sisters, who had already found their partners, were contrasting in colour, their austere brown outfits and their dark hair testifying in a striking way to their northern nature.

Left behind by her parents, who had imitated Father and Lady Catelyn, Jon even saw little Lyarra Dustin across the room heading towards Bran and watched them with amusement, the former trying to lure the latter into the middle of the room, even though it was easy to see the recalcitrant attitude of the second-to-last child of the House Stark. Unsurprisingly, a long list of suitors of varying ages came to court his younger sister in the hope of getting her to dance for the first time, although she did not grant any of them: overcome by the unexpected and unwittingly targeted turn of events and by the somewhat obscene lyrics of the bard's song, she was clearly not interested in showing herself, and her circle of damsels made this clear, forming a veritable march around her.

When he even noticed the presence of Theon Greyjoy among the dancing courtiers, Jon finally realised that he was probably the only one still without a potential partner, apart from Robb. Robb didn't count, however; most of the young ladies of the court of Winterfell were already swooning before him and it wouldn't be much different any time soon. Many would have been jealous, but not him. It didn't matter to him, because the only lady he would have wanted to dance with was already there. Her long black dress, decorated with white suns that glowed like stars, emphasised her milk skin and long dark hair. But she was already dancing, her back towards him, in the arms of the betrothed whom they had so unjustly chosen for her. And he didn't deserve her. He would never deserve her.

_“Of his daughter, deprived, his domain, he delved. His banners, dispatched, the singer, he hunted.”_

Anticipating that he would meet Alys' gaze, he lowered his own to the ground before it happened. Stubbornness wouldn't lead to anything, he knew it, especially now and here. Arthur may have been one of the most unpleasant men Jon knew, but that didn't stop him from being right; even if he only recognised his pragmatic words halfway, Jon knew very well that the world was not turning around him any more than he expected it to. But to forget the softness of Alys' lips, her smile and their promise was so hard. This world was unfair. Everything would have been so simple if they had been free like the bard and the rose.

“You should go talk to her and dance with her at least once, Jon.”

“You're crazy,” he replied. “Her family is here. Everyone is here. I don't want to dishonour Father in front of the whole North.”

“It would just be a dance, nothing more. Lord Rickard wouldn't dare to take offence for so little, and especially in front of Father.”

“I don't want to talk about it, Robb. And I don't want to dance.”

Robb simply shrugged at his answer and added nothing more. It was better that way. His older brother was kind, but even one dance was too much. He didn't even know what he would be able to say to Alys after all this time and he was even more afraid of the potential events that would follow, was he to show himself with her at his arm, let alone at the sight of Lord Rickard Karstark. The aforementioned was on the other side of the room, surrounded by his sons and the many other courtiers who belonged to the group of influence of the House Manderly. He still looked as stern and rigid as Jon remembered.

Robb didn't know what it was like to be a bastard and he underestimated the lord of Karhold if he sincerely believed that he would not be offended to see him near his daughter. Moreover, the humiliating scene that had caused Benfred Tallhart to be sent back to Torrhen's Square for good had already caused him enough anxiety and adrenaline for the weeks to come. He wouldn't have the strength to endure any more humiliation, especially if it involved Alys.

The song and music followed its course as the courtiers ventured one after the other into the middle of the hall. It didn't take much longer for Jon to catch sight of the few damsels who were waiting together nearby. They were not very difficult to discern, nor did they really try to remain discreet. Robb finally spotted them in turn and his embarrassed look made him smile. 

“Look at them... A mammoth in the castle courtyard would go unnoticed in comparison. Do they really think we can't see them, gathered as they are?”

His brother had spoken in a low voice, but his light and conniving tone made him understand that the sight amused him more than it made him circumspect. He nevertheless detected a relative boredom in his eyes.

“I do not think that is even their intention, they are all clearly there to gain your favour.”

“It's a bit ridiculous… It's not as if I'm the only boy available for the night.”

“It's not as if you're the only heir of Winterfell available for the night.”

His reply had the merit of making Robb laugh, even if it had not necessarily been his aim. It was the truth. These young ladies, mostly heiresses and daughters of lesser nobility, certainly hoped to attract Robb's attention for a long time to come. Jon would not be the one to go and ruin their hopes, even if he didn't think less of them as vain ones.

The future lady of Winterfell would come from a house of the highest nobility, and if Father wasn't the busiest in this matter, Jon knew that Lady Catelyn would soon make the matrimonial future of her eldest son her priority.

“You're right, I guess…” Robb finally pronounced, before concluding with amusement: “If I run away and Mother sees it, she'll make me dance with half the girls in the North, so I guess we have to go.”

Resigned, his brother then went in the direction of the young ladies who were humbly waiting; however, as soon as he realised that he was heading there alone, he turned towards him. His look of incomprehension was predictable, as was the question he asked without delay.

“Aren't you coming?”

Jon didn't answer him immediately and at first only nodded negatively.

“It's your favours they're looking for, Robb… not mine.”

He would have liked this one answer to be enough, but his brother's frown made him understand how much good he thought of it. But it didn't matter to him, in truth. Robb could think what he wanted, it wouldn't make any difference. More than anything else, he did not want to be a second wheel or a stepping stone for a girl who hoped to win his brother's favour by courting him. He was far too proud to put up with that.

“You are wrong, just know that.”

That was the only thing Robb said to him. The next moment he joined the group of girls and was joined by a handful of other boys, including Raymun Ryswell and Brandon Tallhart. Despite the surrounding atmosphere, Jon heard their laughter as they seemed to agree on the pairs. Within a few seconds they all made their way to the dance area and Jon lost sight of them in the crowd.

His secluded position allowed him to see that Father had distanced himself from the countless other dancers and had left Lady Catelyn at the arms of Ser Wylis, eldest son of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbour. It was easy to recognise him by his huge moustache, in fact so picturesque and funny that Jon thought he was keeping it only to compensate for the baldness that had caused him to shave his head. It was astonishing that despite the morbid thickness that seemed to affect the men in his family, the heir of White Harbour was moving with unusual grace. And yet the Manderly was a knight, and reputed to be good and competent at it if one were to believe the words of such renowned northern knights as Ser Mark Ryswell.

_“Oh the rascal and his damsel, hidden from the dispossessed wolf… into their bunk in the castle, they conceived him his heir! His heir!”_

The heir of White Harbour seemed to be caught up in a rather serious discussion with the lady of Winterfell. Jon was almost convinced they were talking about betrothal. That of Robb with Lady Wynafryd, obviously.

Nothing concrete had yet been promised, especially as the houses in favour of a Ryswell wedding were more or less openly opposed to it, but that didn't change anything. This betrothal prospect was one of the most anticipated in the North. Ser Wylis would have no more children and he had no sons, thus Lady Wynafryd would inherit White Harbour after him.

One could say of Ser Wilys that he was indeed a merman, especially when compared to his lord father; the two men shared the same physique en masse. Seeing the Manderly in his armour must certainly have been a sight to behold. In comparison, Lady Wynafryd was a mermaid. Robb had said something similar, but this was not surprising, as it was difficult to argue that Wynafryd Manderly was anything less. She was simply far too beautiful and graceful. She was not dancing, strangely enough, and was quietly observing the activities of the room while chatting with her table neighbours, including the man Jon recognized as Lord Rickard's eldest son, Harrion Karstark.

The apprehension of crossing the gaze of a single Karstark, even at this distance, led him to look away to observe the dancers again. Soon he could no longer help but weave a smile on his lips at the sight of his brother Bran and Lady Lyarra Dustin. He had eventually yielded to the more than insistent advances of his soon-to-be fiancée and reluctantly danced with her. His reluctant expression did not seem to dampen the youthful enthusiasm of his lady. Despite this touching spectacle, even these two were not spared the power stakes of the Lords of the North.

It was precisely to calm some of the lords of the North as to the imminence of an alliance with the House Manderly, notably the Ryswells, that Father had conceded this alliance; not that it was a real concession as far as Father was concerned. Everyone in the castle knew that Lord William Dustin was like an older brother to him. Only Lady Catelyn had objected, but judging by the gentleness with which she had treated Lady Lyarra earlier in the day, her reluctance on principle must have evaporated at the sight of the girl.

_“From the crypts she came out, her little prince at her breast. In front of her aghast father, and this heir he made his.”_

It was as if he was the only one of his siblings not to have received offers, when one thought about it, and Theon Greyjoy's insulting words came back to him naturally. A bastard with an uncertain future who would never be happy, a false heir with no dynastic value, that was what the Ironborn had told him. He knew that this could not be true when King Robert was doing him such a favour, and that Father had no more matrimonial plans for him than he had for Arya, Sansa or Rickon. But it did hurt, and to see Robb choose his ladies with such ease while the courtiers had at that moment only eyes for him frustrated him deeply.

_“From a foreign father, but from his blood that he was. The elder made the bastard the high prince of these lands.”_

At some point the crowd stopped again and turned to the singing bard. The cheerful and naughty tune that had amused the audience so much had just changed to this strange and melancholy melody. Once again, everyone wondered what the singer had in mind, and they all listened to him.

It was such a sad song.

_“The bard, of the free folk, his kingdom went forth to found. His unified tribes, on the watch, he brought them down.”_

Jon soon noticed the more or less nervous reactions of some of the lords and knights present in the hall. It wasn't long before shouts were heard in some corners of the room, where the banners of the Umbers, Mormonts and Glovers were displayed.

_“From a foreign father, but from his blood that he was. But that day they crossed sword, so the young then killed the old.”_

The Winter Throne Room returned to relative silence as Abel the Bard ended his singing. He leaned forward and curtseyed as low as courteous, his long, curly chestnut hair almost touching the ground because of his posture. Applause came from almost the entire hall as the ruckus seemed to emerge from the corners of the most northern noble houses. They must obviously not have appreciated very much the fact that the bard of the song found his origins beyond the wall.

Jon saw a gathering swelling under the Umber and Wull banners, and like everyone else, in spite of the crowd and although they were unintelligible, he heard the echo of shouting and screaming as the standing ovation given to the bard approached its end and was no longer enough to hide it. No doubt an argument was in progress. The absence of Father in his original place made it clear to him that he must have been in the crowd, as must have been the case with the Greatjon and his son, as well as Theo Wull. For these three had previously been with Father but were no longer there either.

“You will pay for it! You will pay for this, you hear, the Hugo! Nobody insults Mors Crowfood and gets away with it!”

It was the only distinctive shout he really understood. Emerging in an instant from the gathering, Jon recognised to his unique and intimidating appearance the eldest of the Greatjon uncles, the mighty Mors Umber, whom people in the North nicknamed Mors Crowfood. He was Umber in everything one would expect of them: a half giant who competed with the Greatjon and his son in stature and could certainly lift him with one hand.

“Get out of my way, you goat's milk drinkers!” he yelled enraged to the people who had the misfortune of standing in front of him as he left the room. The most unfortunate among them, he violently pushed them aside and knocked down more than one while he undoubtedly forced his way through the crowd.

His face was twisted by anger, which only made it more scary, for the fury painted on his face highlighted his most demeaning trait, the one for which he was called Mors Crowfood: an eye torn out, replaced by a sculpted piece of obsidian, lying at the centre of a horrible and deep scar. It tore the left half of his face from top to bottom, but rather than hiding his wound with a blindfold, the mighty Umber proudly wore it. It was said that the crows had done it to him by gouging out his eye, mistaking him for a corpse when he was just sleeping.

The man did not go alone. In his wake, more than twenty men, whom he recognised without difficulty as other Umbers, Glovers and also Karstarks, followed him. The Greatjon and his son were among them, but also Master Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte.

Around him, Jon heard the worried voices of several courtiers who feared an escalation of violence, rather well-founded worries if there were any. It was indeed quite rare in the North that a feast, even among the nobility, did not end at one time or another with an event of this kind. The North was vast, and as was customary to say among the smallfolk, there were as many noble houses as there were enmities and ancestral problems.

And yet, once they had left, the tension and anxiety in the room subsided. He saw Father in turn emerge from the gathering to return to his initial place, followed by Theo Wull and his cousin Hugo, Lord William, Ser Martyn, Ser Mark and also Lord Rodrik Ryswell. They were unsurprisingly joined by Lady Catelyn, who certainly wanted to inquire about the situation.

For a few minutes, Jon even wondered if the party would be interrupted, as lively and obviously serious discussions were taking place around Father. But finally, after a sudden but clear sign from him sent to the minstrels, the music resumed, and with it the festivities.

In an instant, following the tambourines and flutes of his fellow musicians and the slow, melodious rhythm of his lute, Abel the Bard picked up his voice and began to sing Brave Danny Flint, a song as beautiful as it was sad about a young woman who wanted to be a sworn sister of the Night's Watch. The impatient courtiers were soon dancing again, the slow and romantic rhythm of the song even inviting more of them to take over the middle of the hall with their partners.

But this time, despite the reprise and against all his expectations, it was no longer in the arms of Daryn Hornwood that he found Alys. But in Robb's.

Anger overcame him before he really understood it, and the blood that flowed through his veins became as boiling as the beating of his heart was unbridled. He could not determine, however, whether this was the work of jealousy or vexation. His brother knew, he knew everything. So why did he do this?

An answer came to him very quickly, when his brother and his new partner stared at him more and more. They seemed to be talking and he naturally understood that he was the subject. What are you doing Robb?

And what he feared, Robb did, as soon as the minstrels ended their song. The warning glance he gave his brother had no effect, and far from deflating, Robb had the audacity to bring him Alys for all to see.

“You are unconscious. What do you think you're doing? You're going to create a scene.” he grumbled softly, as fast as he could, and taking the driest tone his whisper allowed him.

“Don't chicken out,” Robb replied in a patronising tone, a tone that made Jon realise that his elder didn't care about the repercussions. “I'm doing you a favor. Stop pitying yourself and talk to Alys at least once.”

Jon would have returned a scathing reply but his mention of Alys threw like a bucket of cold water over the burning coals. She was there, just a few steps away, and waited so calmly that Jon no longer even had the courage to ignore her gaze.

“Don't keep her waiting... Come on!”

Robb pushed him in the direction of the Karstark girl, certainly to force him to do what he wanted, not that he'd run away. It was now too late.

Neither he nor she pronounced anything. He just looked at her and she did the same, and that was enough. So he offered her his hand, not even knowing what kind of expression was covering his face at that moment, or even what kind of look he was giving her, and Alys gave him hers. Ignoring everything else, he led her to the centre of the room, passing between the couples who were already dancing, and finding an unoccupied space, he did as they had always done when they were younger and danced to the rhythm of Elina's harp.

It was as if the time they had spent away from each other hadn't mattered, as if their last dance was only a few days ago. This only made the situation stranger and more horrible, as his eyes were lost in the pretty blue-grey eyes of his winter lady. Seen so closely, her beauty was all the more absurd, or was it love that made him absurd. Yet Alys was more beautiful than ever. She had grown, just like him, the signs of her femininity causing him a sensation as uncomfortable as it was overwhelming. His right hand on her hip, and while he held her thin, soft hand in his left one, she sometimes pressed her chest against him in a movement.

To have her so close to him was electrifying, so much so that at times he thought he couldn't even resist the urge to kiss her, right there, right now. This desire terrified him because it reminded him of Lord Rickard's angry look and the tears Alys had shed when they were separated.

“Forgive him.” Alys suddenly pronounced, the timbre of her voice more bewitching than any other instrument.

“It is I who should ask you to forgive him,” he replied then. “You know how he is. He is so defiant about so many things. He is not always aware of the results of his actions…”

“Jon, you've got it all wrong. If I was that worried about it, I would have said no to him.”

Yet it was impossible for him to ignore the distrustful and hostile eye of the Karstarks, who were watching them attentively. It was obvious that they would have noticed them.

“Your father hates me, and I'd rather not cause you any more trouble.”

The only answer he got from Alys was a smile. A melancholy smile or an amused smile, he didn't really know. Alys was not the easiest to read, but it was a beautiful smile.

They let music guide their steps, taking advantage of their relative privacy in the midst of all the courtiers to forget their situation. Jon had never liked to dance very much, and perhaps that was why Elina had been uncompromising in her teaching, more so than in any other discipline - High Valyrian aside. But with Alys it was so different. Having her in his arms managed to make him forget everything, even his aversion. Thus, even before he realised it, they were already smiling at each other, giving each other laughing glances as they danced boldly.

“I didn't remember you being such a good dancer.” she noticed with her distinctive timbre.

“I had an excellent partner,” he replied in a similar tone. “And an exceptional teacher... although a bit horrible and above all downright tyrannical.”

“And does that tyrannical teacher continue to teach you dance?”

“As well as everything else. When you left, she even called herself my partner. You know her, she's a living hell.”

Alys' laughter was a blessing. He had been dreaming about it for over a year and it rang in his ears in a way even better than he had hoped for. It was both so invigorating and nostalgic, and it reminded him of their carefree days before everything in the castle went wrong. Everything had seemed so simple then, even if it had never been.

“Then nothing really changed…”

She seemed relieved, as if she had been worried about them when it was her future that had been made so obscure.

“Yes, but… you're gone.”

His answer might have sounded like a reproach, but that was not his intention and he hoped afterwards that she would understand. However, she remained silent, an illegible expression covering her white face. This was probably what made him so sad.

Alys always had this secret side, as did many ladies of high lineage, prudence being a quality that nobles cultivated in all circumstances. Yet he could see through the appearance and remember the young and pretty Stark with the bright smile and crystalline laughter; she seemed so extinct that he felt his heart breaking.

But at the same time, she seemed to be in such harmony with herself and so calm that it made him envious. She gave him this unrecognisable impression of maturity, almost as if she were older than him, even though she was a year younger than him. How did she do it? He couldn't understand. In comparison, he was so full of whims that he felt like a summer boy no older than Bran. She was a descendant of the Kings of Winter much more than he would ever be.

His wandering thoughts were certainly reflecting on his face during the silence, for she again granted him the grace of hearing the crystalline timbre of her voice soon afterwards.

“When are they planning your departure to the south?”

“I don't really know,” he told her, silencing his doubts as best he could. “Soon. Before I turn fifteen, according to my uncle Benjen.”

“A year from now…”

It was a whisper, but he heard it as clearly as the howling of the wolf on a full moon night. She no longer looked at him and was content to see, preferring a place in front of her, unreachable to the eye, whatever it might be. They both knew what his departure meant. Their two paths would branch off forever and they would never see each other again. This dance, to the melancholy rhythm of Brave Danny Flint, would be their last moment together.

He took it upon himself to swallow all his remorse, all his resentment and purged his face of the puerile and negative expressions that were likely to have appeared there until then. The next moment, rather than letting her drift into any affliction, he brought her back to him by grasping her hip more firmly and dragged her into a long dance. He put everything else aside, he released his fears, he forgot the presence of Father and Lord Rickard, and for a moment he deigned to become again the petulant boy he had chosen not to be any longer. He would not let Alys remember him only with regrets. He wanted her to remember their laughter, their escapades and his indigo eyes.

Surprised by his attitude, the pink took her by the cheeks at the sensation of their bodies pressed against each other while she could not help but look straight into his eyes and follow in his footsteps. It was the only moment when he felt her wavering, when she seemed younger than he was, and it was also their most beautiful moment when she started to laugh and he imitated her, and they turned in this waltz dance like the children they still were. It was their most beautiful moment, but it was also their last.

When the music stopped and waves of applause from the courtiers in the hundreds replaced it, reality tore them away from their ephemeral little piece of paradise. They found themselves face to face and motionless, once again under that great chandelier, surrounded by the countless people standing in the middle of that crowded hall. And she to take advantage of the darkness and chaos of this crowd to hug him like the loving girl he knew she still was.

He gave her back her embrace and gave her as much time as she wanted while he immersed himself in the perfume of her hair all along. Could Lord Rickard see them from here? Was he going to be offended by their behaviour? When he felt Alys' lips against his cheek, he realised that it didn't matter.

“Goodbye Jon.” she whispered to him.

The strange sensation he felt when he saw her return to the sides of the Winter Throne Room was unheard of. He knew he could stop her, for it was only a few steps and a burst of voice. Did he have to? Arthur would tell him no, without any doubt, and Father would remain silent.

In the end, she disappeared into the meandering crowd and he found himself in the middle of the people dancing, motionless, lulled with regret and alone.

With a clearer mind than during the feast, the sobering having gradually done its work, questions began to haunt him for long minutes, as he watched the ball take its course, song after song, while sitting in the distance. No one would care about him here, half hidden by one of the side pillars of the hall, so what was he still doing there? Why hadn't he already left? Why had he even come in the first place if all he got out of it was disappointment and despair? He felt empty, purposeless and powerless. He felt lonely.

 _He had always been lonely_ , this thought came to his mind before any other. If he was self-pitying like Uncle Arthur or Robb claimed, or if he tried to put his feelings into perspective, the answer was as confused as his emotions. And yet this thought was clearer to him than any other, more concrete at that moment than it had ever been before. The reality, simple and banal, was bitter, if not tasteless.

Surrounded by his most eminent guests, Father watched him with a neutral and discreet gaze. He must certainly have seen him with Alys, which did not delight him or make him feel better, quite the contrary. He felt frustrated and angry, at himself and at others, and now he felt ashamed to be seen by Father. Had he experienced this same torment when he had been forced to abandon Mother?

Thinking of Mother made him think of Arthur. He would have been better off not listening to him. Convinced that he was unnecessary in this place where he did not belong, he got up hastily, ready to retire for good. But it was then that he saw her, through the crowd, surreptitiously appearing between the dancing and colourful bodies of the guests. He would have missed anyone else; but not her.

Sitting on a seat against the Winter throne, Sansa looked inaccessible and sad. And it was not an expression he would have expected to see on her little sister's face during the night she had anticipated so much. It made him feel sorry for her.

She was all alone, too.

However, he did not let her be like that for very long, for he came to sit beside her shortly afterwards, taking his place on the Winter throne, with a friendly smile drawn on his face. She greeted him in silence and looked at him with that same neutral and distant look, without giving him back his smile.

She seemed to have seen and concluded what she wanted since she lost interest in him after a few seconds, focusing again on the great hall of the throne.

He did not feel any particular rejection from her, either in her gestures or in her silence, so he concluded that she accepted his presence at least to a minimum, despite the fact that she clearly did not want to know why he was sitting next to her.

“What are you doing here alone?” he asked her in the kindest tone he could take at the time.

She did not answer him immediately. Some of the courtiers might have thought that she had ignored them, and she had certainly done so before that evening, but he was her brother and knew her much better than that. The expression on her face and the gleam of reflection in her eyes were enough signs to let him know that she was pondering her answer.

“I am not alone.” she finally deigned to say.

She had illustrated her answer by insisting on a particular place in the room. Following it, Jon noticed Jeyne Poole dancing in the arms of a young boy who appeared to be the same age. He was none other than Denys, the son of Hallis Mollen, a captain of the Winterfell guards. Next to these two, Greta and Beth Cassel also danced, respectively with a boy from the House Cardon, a son of Ser Kyle most certainly, and Brandon Tallhart.

The observation was self-evident despite what she was doing.

“You look rather gloomy for someone who is not alone.”

Usually Sansa would probably not have appreciated the comment and would have replied; this time she preferred to flee from his gaze and look the other way. He often forgot that his younger sister was only ten years old, partly because she was so wise and mature for her age, but when she was pouting and her face was clothed in such a childish expression, it was hard to ignore it.

“Why aren't you dancing? I thought that the lady of Winterfell was the first to introduce herself.”

“I'm not the lady of Winterfell, it's Mother, you should know that.” she grumbled.

Sansa had immediately turned to him and her predictable reaction amused him, to say the least. She admired Lady Catelyn so much that she couldn't bear to be compared.

“That's true, but you don't answer my question.”

“What question? I don't remember.”

She remembered very clearly, but he played the game.

“Why aren't you dancing with the others?” he repeated. “That's what you were doing earlier, though. I saw you dancing the low line with everyone.”

This time she could not ignore his question, and judging by the annoyed expression covering her face, she obviously did not want to talk about it. But this was not surprising, because if all went well, she would not be sitting there alone, chomping at the bit.

“I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to dance any more anyway.”

Her answer immediately reminded him of the one he had given Robb earlier, and the tender smile that wove itself on his lips was hard to hide from his sister. Naturally, she misunderstood its meaning, was offended by it and judged him with a single glance. She was clearly vexed.

“Have you come to make fun of me? Don't you have better things to do?”

“It doesn't suit you to imitate Arya and me.” he answered softly.

She did not appreciate his response either, despite his intonation, and the gleam of defiance in her eyes was unequivocal. Far from being intimidating, she was more touching to him than anything else; everyone said she was Lady Catelyn come again, and for sure they had the same characteristic beauty and grace. But when she was pouting like that, she looked like Arya, not like their mother.

She was precious, his sister.

“Let’s be honest… You have no partner, have you?” he continued, leaning over the arm of the Winter throne.

She hadn't backed down despite the fact that he had just invaded her personal space, but his rather mischievous question stung her to the core. The red that caught her cheeks was quite distinctive. By the Old Gods, how easy it was to tease her.

“The eminent Sansa Stark, the highest lady of the North, has not even found a suitable partner for the biggest ball in the North, while her ladies-in-waiting are chaining them up with ease? What would the ladies of King's Landing say if they knew? Or even those of White Harbour? Perhaps we should ask Lady Wynafryd for her opinion?”

He soon stopped teasing her when he noticed that she took it much more to heart than he had expected and that she no longer even hid her sadness. Her reaction also confirmed to him that it was the fact that she didn't have a partner that made her so worried and sad.

“Why?” he asked, although he realised from his sister's eyes that she hadn't understood what he was asking.

“Why what?”

“Why don't you have any? I've seen boys approach you before.”

The uncertainty in Sansa's eyes indicated that she doubted his intentions and weighed the pros and cons of answering him honestly. But he already suspected the nature of her worries, for Lady Catelyn's high expectations and the pressure she put on herself to answer them were not a foreign matter to him.

The fact that she was not at the moment dancing among the courtiers with young heirs must have been an absolute disappointment to her.

“You can tell me, I won't make fun of you, I swear.”

“Do you really swear?”

“I swear, on the Heart Tree.”

His promise seemed to reassure Sansa, so she felt less on guard than before.

“I refused them... I think.”

She thought? He had of course heard, but he was afraid he didn't understand. The confusion must have been apparent on his face, as she repeated with a little more energy and deepened her explanation.

“I did not answer the invitations to dance from Sir Raymun Ryswell and Sir Brandon Tallhart.”

“So… you turned them down because you were shy?”

Sansa nodded after a few seconds of hesitation.

“And not because you thought they were ugly, we agree?”

The sweet laughter his sister had at his joke soothed him; the situation was not as bad as he had initially thought. It just turned out that Sansa was Sansa, moved by her contradictions as everyone else was. When she calmed down, her expression gave him the feeling that she was putting things into perspective. Talking to her must have done her some good and brought her out of her unusual loneliness.

“No other boy came to court me after that…”

She put her sentence on hold but she didn't really need to say much more anyway. The situation was already clear enough for him.

“You haven't been very clever,” he knowingly observed. “By refusing them one after the other, you must have discouraged them all.”

Naturally, the conclusion that no boy would perhaps come nearer to him at night came immediately to his sister, judging by the relative distress in her eyes.

“But what can I do about it? It would be unseemly and indecent to make the first step, I don't want to shame Mother… And what if my feet get caught in my dress? I am not prepared for such dances, I might embarrass myself in front of the whole court… Father would be appalled…”

“Sansa, you worry too much.” he eventually said.

She didn't seem to agree, but it was expected.

“And yet I am all alone here while Jeyne is dancing.”

“That is true, but the ball isn't over yet.”

She remained silent for a few seconds, watching the people dancing in front of them. He wondered what she was thinking and was about to ask her when she finally spoke again.

“I am the eldest daughter of the House Stark,” she began as the tone of her voice gradually became disdainful and dejected. “I should be as pure and immaculate as the Maiden, a role model for all the other ladies at this ball, and all the boys of the North should be courting me in the hope of a dance. I can't afford to make mistakes, Jon…”

“You're making a mistake right now,” he told her at once, before quickly moving on so she wouldn't cut it off. “In all decency, no one in this room can expect you to be a perfect lady, you know? Certainly not Lady Catelyn and even less Father.”

“And how would you know?”

“Because perfection is not human and only gods are perfect. I am sure that even the illustrious beings of old, such as the Dragon Lords of Valyria or the Children of the Forest had their faults.”

“Old Nan always says that we are descended from the Children of the Forest…”

“Old Nan always says a lot of things… but until the contrary is proven, our skin is not made of bark and we are not covered with leaves.”

The little giggle that the Stark girl couldn't contain proved to him that she wasn't insensitive to what he was saying. The smile that remained on her lips and the lighter expression she later displayed indicated that she had managed to relax, despite the anguish she had experienced. _That’s a relief._

The minutes that followed passed quietly, the long and melodious ballad sung by the bards accompanying the dances of the courtiers and giving rhythm to the festivities and laughter. Here and there, everywhere, in every place, there were incredible scenes, encounters as unique as they were new. Perhaps it was during this kind of celebration that the interest of the Winter throne took on its full meaning, or perhaps he had never really noticed it before; but from here, slightly overhanging in front of this great pit-shaped hall, the diversity of the North had never seemed more fascinating and authentic.

But on the other hand, the privileged position conferred by this royal pedestal made him feel so aware of his loneliness that he immediately understood why Sansa had felt so sad. It was perhaps this, more than anything else, that prompted him to act; this, and the fact that the song that was being played had meanwhile come to an end.

He then got up and stood in front of his little sister, to whom he addressed a complicit smile.

“Lady Stark, will you grant me your next dance?”

She looked at him with a look of uncertainty and remained silent. Her blue eyes went from his indigo eyes, to the hand he was holding out to her, to the crowd behind his back. Some of the courtiers took their places among the dancers while others moved away. Robb was seen in the crowd as he chatted while waiting for the next song, Lyra Mormont at his arm and surrounded by a handful of young heirs and their ladies. Notably those whom Sansa had previously refused.

“All you need is a first dance, Sansa,” he continued kindly. “They will all fall under your spell as soon as they see you dance. Trust me.”

It didn't take much more than that for her to put her little hand in his. The next moment, he brought them both to the middle of the throne room, exposed for all to see, next to their elder brother and all the others. And all this just in time, for the melody that resounded in the room sounded the reprise.

A big, delighted smile took a lasting place on Sansa's face soon enough, the lights of the flaming torches brightening up her coppery hair. Amidst the songs, the melody of flutes, viols and bagpipes, and as they twirled with each other in this lively waltz dance, she metamorphosed like a butterfly under the sun.

At last, her acute laughter made him realise that the fears that had gripped her until then had dissipated as if they had never existed.

Sansa's laughter was echoed by the laughter of Robb and Lyra who danced a few feet away, her brother's red hair rivalling that of their younger sister. Bran was not far away either, his reticent attitude having long since given way to a playful, youthful attitude, one he shared with his Dustin lady. Arya aside, and Rickon also because of his age, they were all there in the same place, to the rhythm of the music and in the eyes of all, the children of the North, moving under the weight of the eyes of the Winterfell court.

It was at that moment, while he was looking around them, that Jon realised that he had been right.

“People are looking at us now.” he informed Sansa in a whisper.

She was lovely, his younger sister, and it was only natural for people to notice her, especially now, as radiant as she was, in the middle of that court that covered their house with so many favours. She stopped laughing, however, and looked at their surroundings as he did. Here and there, the lords of the North had eyes only for them, for his brothers, for their sister, perhaps even for himself, exposed as they were, on the princely winter flagstones.

The youthful shyness of his younger sister seemed to be quickly reflected in her suddenly clumsy steps. However, neither her ephemeral failure nor her apparent embarrassment were able to overcome her radiant and fulfilled look. This was how Jon knew that his sister loved to dance more than he ever would; her enthusiasm was simply insatiable.

Focused as they were during this dance, the end of the song came sooner than they thought. And as on the many previous occasions, there were many interactions between the courtiers, some exchanging partners, and others leaving the dance area. Naturally, the time came for him to let his sister go. Uncertain, she had noticed, as he had, her potential suitors waiting on the sides and observing them. He shared a complicit look with her and finally let her go.

“It's time to find you a better partner than me.” he suggested.

“Aren't you staying?” she asked.

He replied with a negative nod. He had not planned to stay here, he would have left long ago if it hadn't been for her.

“Oh, you're not planning to stay with us, Lord Jon?”

It was the crystalline voice of a woman just beside them that was heard. Turning around, Jon met the clear and attentive gaze of Lady Wynafryd Manderly. She was standing there, at the arm of the man who had hitherto been her most recent partner: the young Raymun Ryswell. He soon realised that both of them were hoping to exchange partners. It would have been ill-advised for him and Sansa to refuse this eminent duo, so he was quick to meet their expectations.

“Perhaps I could… stay a little longer, if Lord Raymun would do me the honour of taking my sister as his partner for the next dance and give me… yours. If it suits you, my lady.”

“It suits me, my lord.” the Manderly replied with a smile.

It seemed to suit Raymun Ryswell too, as he immediately invited Sansa in with an outstretched hand, the big hopeful smile on his face reminding him of Ser Mark; Raymun certainly looked like his uncle. And while the future lord of the Rills took his sister along, the music resumed at the same time, and Jon could do nothing about it.

In no way sulking his contact, the Manderly had invaded his personal space before he was even ready, and to such an extent that it was almost confusing; she was close, much too close. Thus, having put his right hand against the Manderly's hip and taken one of her hands in his own, he found himself dragged along, forced to imitate all the other courtiers in order not to embarrass himself in front of the court, and against this girl, two years his senior; a woman rather than a girl actually. _The most coveted woman in the North._

It wasn't like with Alys who was still a bit juvenile, or Sansa who was totally juvenile, and with whom he felt in control. If he could sum up his impression, it was that Lady Wynafryd seemed overwhelming, for want of a better term. From touch to smell to sight, she simply overwhelmed all his senses. If she had ever looked beautiful from afar, it was unparalleled up close. As for the fragrant smell of her hair, it even went to his head, reminding him that he was not yet completely sober... Was it a smell of cinnamon or almond? He could also smell a slight hint of ambergris in it. She smelled good.

But it was the touch that proved to be the most embarrassing, that silky touch of her hand in his and that voluptuous touch of her body against his as they spun, especially when he simply couldn't ignore the voluminous lures of the Manderly that weighed down on his chest. She was enjoying it, he knew it, he was sure of it, for the laughing, turquoise look she gave him was too innocent for her not to suspect the effect she was having on him. She had very beautiful eyes.

And all this made him nervous.

“For such a good dancer, I haven't seen you dance much tonight, Lord Jon.” she said unexpectedly.

Caught unawares, he didn't really know what to say and remained mute and indecisive for a while. Yet she was patient; a girl like Lyra Mormont would have openly chastised and teased him endlessly.

“You flatter me, Lady Manderly, but I am not as good a dancer as you say.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” she answered him lightly, before continuing in the same vein. “Please call me Lady Wynafryd, by the way. I am not so much older than you, and I am not the lady of White Harbour. At least not yet.”

“And I am no lord, in spite of the courtesy titles granted to me.”

He immediately regretted having answered without thinking. But for some reason he didn't know, rather than hold his grumpy tone against him, Wynafryd continued as if nothing had happened.

“Aren't you? Aren't you supposed to inherit the lordship of Dragonstone?”

He looked at her hesitantly. The pleasant and imperturbable tone of the young woman and the softness of her voice were as many disturbing as they were soothing. He didn't even know what she wanted... Did he have to answer sincerely?

“Precisely, my lady, I am supposed to inherit it… but it will be at the king's discretion. Nothing can be taken for granted yet.”

“Hasn't House Stark been guarding Dragonstone in the name of the king for fourteen years?”

“It has, my lady.”

“Well, if so, then you are a lord and I am a lady.”

She hadn't even let him finish, but he thought it was better that way. It wasn't a good idea to voice his concerns aloud to the woman who was to inherit the most powerful fiefdom in the North in the future. Arthur would undoubtedly criticise him for his overly hung tongue. And perhaps even Father would also go along with his sermon this time.

“And you still haven't answered my point, my lord,” she continued, emphasizing with amusement on the last word. “Why do you present yourself so sparingly? Yet this banquet is such a wonderful opportunity to show the whole court the valiant knight of this morning.”

“You flatter me again, my lady. It is useless, I assure you…”

“I am sincere,” she cut it off in a tone that seemed very paradoxical to her because of her pleasant mood. There was something predatory about her, even though she hid it well. “You may not know it, but many people were fascinated by your performances during the day. They say that Ser Arthur Dayne would be your appointed master-at-arms and that he took you on as his squire, is this true?”

“He is not really my appointed master-at-arms, but I am his squire,” he replied cautiously. “You should know that Arthur Dayne is my uncle. It is a tradition in our family for the elders to train their cadets in arms from an early age.”

“Is that what Ser Arthur did with you?”

“Since I was five years old.” he revealed to her in a nod.

The turquoise eyes of his partner grew more and more fascinated when he confirmed it.

“That explains it all… That's why you managed to knock down that brute Benfred Tallhart with such ease.”

He wouldn't have said with such ease. Facing Benfred Tallhart had been a real ordeal. Certainly he had been dominant throughout the whole fight, but it would have taken only one mistake to fail in front of everyone; moreover, defeating his opponent had been nothing like a victory.

“Aren't you satisfied with your victory?”

Lady Wynafryd had asked her question hesitantly, which was understandable given his silence. He must not have given the most charming impression. In fact, his sisters used to call him the grumpy one at times like this. His partner was intelligent and she quickly pinpointed the problem. Much too quickly for his taste.

“Is it the fact that he insulted you in front of everyone that makes you so bitter?” she asked then, but it was a rhetorical question and he was pretty sure they both knew it. “Doesn't the fact that your father banished him from Winterfell satisfy you?”

“Of course not.” he refuted without delay.

As if he could answer otherwise, as if he could openly admit that he had _enjoyed it_. For Father had banished Benfred in the course of the day and in front of a large part of the court. Jon had known nothing of this in the first place; he had been in the library at the time. The jubilation was soon replaced by regret when he learned that Ser Helman had preferred to escort his heir son back to their fiefdom, leaving his wife, children and household in the castle.

Many rumours had been spread by many people, and everyone had gone to great lengths to peddle the event that had led to such a sanction. But it was indeed Father's worried expression that made him feel petty and guilty.

“I feel sorry for Ser Helman, he is a good and honourable man,” he continued, although he preferred not to look his partner in the eye. “Neither he nor his house deserved such humiliation.”

“While you deserved yours?”

“That's not what I said…”

This time he looked into Wynafryd's eyes. He feared by his sceptical intonations that he might appear discourteous, but once again she seemed neither offended nor indisposed in any way. She was thinking.

“It's not what you said, but it's what is understood,” she said at last. “By insulting you in this odious manner before the whole court, Benfred Tallhart has sullied the honour of your house. Indeed, it was only natural for your lord father to take action. It is the opposite which would have been regrettable.”

But in doing so, Father deprived himself of the support of the future Torrhen's Square master.

“I would have preferred it not to have come to that point,” he admitted. “Even for all the contempt he inspires in me.”

“And that's how we can see that you are better than him. He believes that nobility resides only in the blood, while it also resides in the soul. And he has it in neither.”

The conclusion of the lady made him smile.

Afterwards they said nothing more and were content to follow the music for a while.

It went by much faster than he thought it would, as he danced in harmony with this intriguing damsel. He didn't even know why she had given him so much time. She was destined to his brother, it was well known. Who else could he marry in the North but her? And yet she danced with him, the bastard who had remained on the fringes of the ball. He, the second son, whose inheritance was as hazardous as his lineage.

They danced for many more minutes in this same silence, the long turquoise dress of his partner floating with their movements. Others stopped and others changed partners, but she remained in his arm and held him at the same time within this celebration, for the same obscure reason that he could not guess; and that he finally stopped trying to unveil. Lady Wynafryd had her secrets just as he had his.

And so they continued until the music stopped and they left the dance floor in tandem at the announcement of an intermission. He had enough and so did she. She finally turned to him and broke the silence they had jointly established.

“Will you finally continue the ball with us? Or will you remain that dark and mysterious wolf that hides behind its stone column and leaves the damsels prey to their own curiosity?”

She had formulated her question in a very teasing way, but it was still a real question. For a moment, if she sincerely wanted him to stay, he even thought of answering her in the affirmative.

But the exhilarating air of the festivities no longer disturbed his senses and the coats-of-arms of the Karstarks and the Hornwoods, which stood not far from those of the Manderlys, brought him back to reality. No matter how nice it was, it was only an interlude. Just a long interlude.

“Thank you, Lady Wynafryd, but I'm not as fond of dancing as you think and solitude suits me better.”

“A pity.”

That was all she said, that strange smile on her face. They saluted each other and he kissed her hand reverently.

The next moment they parted and he watched her return to her own people; to her sister, their mother, their courtiers and their cousin. He did not even try to catch sight of the Hornwood; the very instant he saw his silhouette and his orange doublet, he returned to the depths of the room and to the solitude that he thought was his respite.

Robb was still dancing with Lyra Mormont at his arm and Sansa hadn't left Raymun Ryswell's company either. Although they no longer danced, Bran and Lyarra were also still together, sitting at a table with the latter's parents and chatting with many other courtiers; the Cerwyn, the Slates, but also some Flints and Ryswells. Uncle Benjen was among them and seemed to be telling a thrilling tale if the fascinated looks of his little brother, his lady and their neighbours were any indication.

Isolated and alone with himself, the lone wolf that he was became aware that this renewed freedom did not bring him the deliverance he had hoped for, for behind his stone column, all the torments of being left aside from his kin appeared to him once again. And he did not appreciate them any more now than he had appreciated them before.

But of all of these, it was the idea of seeing Alys dancing again in the arms of another that made him get up, his blossoming mood coming from his dances with Sansa and Wynafryd already dissipated and far away behind him. This time, however, no sister to help and no curious lady appeared to hold him back, so he left the great hall through the back doors leading to the upper floors and balconies, certain that he would not meet any intruders. And now his dancing watch had ended.

It took him less than a minute to reach the upper floor, climbing one by one up the large stone steps of the spiral staircase. It was much darker here, the only lights being the torches in the throne room. Over the edge of the inner balcony one could see the many guests dancing below, and as expected, no one was here, not even a guard. He did not want to linger there either and preferred to use the ironwood postern that led to the other balconies, the ones outside.

The coolness of the night soon replaced the hot and stifling air of the castle and he welcomed it like a blessing from the Old Gods. Breathing in a deep breath of air, he felt the breeze blowing through his hair, drying his moist eyes. It was surely during this special moment that one really realised how much the accumulated heat of the fireplaces, the bodies and the festivities could go straight to one's head. But he was probably the only one in this castle who had to escape from the mundanities and prefer the privacy of a balcony.

Or so he thought, until that moment, when the squeaking of the iron hinges of the wooden balcony door could be heard. His attention immediately turned away from the distant night and concentrated on the unwelcome one that came to disturb him.

He would have preferred any other person to the two intruders who stood before him.

“Aren't you enjoying the night, Snow?”

It was Eddard Karstark who had just spoken, his deep voice rising from the silence.

The Karstark crossed the threshold of the balcony, quickly imitated by his younger brother Torrhen. They entered the balcony, pushing the door behind them. He faced them without delay. He already suspected the reason for their presence; they would not have followed him all the way here to talk about the stars. He had no trouble spotting the contempt that gleamed in their blue-grey eyes, just as he spotted the anger in them.

“What did you dare to say to our sister to make her leave the banquet in tears?” continued the elder, quickly followed by the younger one.

“Tell us what we want to know, Snow! Tell us what you did to her!”

“I don't even know what you're talking about.” he replied in a dry tone.

He didn't even know that Alys had left the banquet after their dance. And besides, what more could he have done? How could they even come to the conclusion that he was at fault?

“You don't know? Stop playing innocent!” Eddard Karstark got angry. “Everyone saw you dancing with her earlier. Now answer! What did you say to her?”

“I didn't say anything to her.”

His circumspect intonation obviously displeased Lord Rickard's two cadets. Not that he was sorry. The contempt they had for him he was quite happy to reciprocate.

“Answer, by the gods!”

“All we did was dance, nothing else happened,” he replied with disdain, looking him in the eye. “And even if I'd said something to her, it's none of your business.”

“Fucking liar!”

He swore that Torrhen Karstark's screeching could have been heard as far as the paved courtyard of the citadel. Eddard Karstark, however, stopped his younger brother from doing anything but shouting: he had blocked his way with an outstretched arm.

“You've got a lot of nerve, Snow,” he said. “But I warn you, you are going to stop turning around her. She has already suffered too much because of you, and there's no way we're going to let you jeopardize her betrothal a second time.”

“And otherwise, what?”

“Otherwise I'll throw you over the balcony, Snow, may the gods be my witnesses!”

Torrhen Karstark's bellow echoed in the night. If the realisation of what he had said came to him afterwards, the Karstark clearly didn't budge from it and kept this aggressive posture. Jon looked him in the eye and showed him that he would not meet their hypocritical demands like a coward who would give in to the slightest threat. He was not afraid.

“Don't delude yourself, Snow,” Eddard continued. “Our father will never let you defile our bloodline with your seed. Alys deserves a thousand times better than a bastard.”

“My brother is not a bastard!”

Robb's voice split the air, as clear as the moonlight in the night sky.

He had just pushed open the door, imposing his presence on the threshold of the balcony. His blue eyes were filled with a fury such as Jon had rarely seen. Surprised by his intrusion, the two Karstark brothers turned towards their future liege lord, with mixed expressions on their faces.

“It doesn't concern you, Robb Stark! Mind your own business!”

“It doesn't concern me, you say? How dare you speak to me like that! How dare you answer me? Do you even know who you're talking to, Torrhen Karstark?”

Robb's successive questions had become more and more furious. If Torrhen thought that Robb expected him to answer, he was heavily mistaken, for the very second he opened his mouth, Robb was the first to do so.

“Spare me your saliva you fool, or else the gods will curse me, for I will be the one to throw you over the balcony!”

In spite of his indignant look and the outraged grimace that stretched across his bearded face, Torrhen did not dare to answer him. As for Eddard, he seemed both scandalized and worried. Unlike his brother, he seemed to realise that they were facing the heir of their liege lord.

“You insulted and threatened my brother before my very eyes! In my father's house! Do you really realize the gravity of your act? You know what happened to Benfred Tallhart, imagine what you can incur!”

“Lord Robb–…”

“Silence!” Robb cried out, immediately interrupting Eddard Karstark.

And silence was; for a time.

Until Robb breaks it again.

“You will not appear in court again. Until your father returns to your fiefdom with his household, I won't see you anywhere. And may the gods have mercy on you if I see you again in the presence of my brother. Now go away!”

Jon watched the two Karstarks evacuate the place, the same vindictive look still on their faces. Yet they did not disagree at any point and the heavy iron wooden door slammed on its hinges as they passed.

From then on, only the northerly wind came to disturb the silence, heavy as lead.

However, their departure did not relieve him of anything. It only added to his already strong resentment the incomprehension of this umpteenth suspension point. Again and again this conformist suspension before the situation turned dramatic, as if it had not already capsized.

As if the damage had not already been done.

“Why?”

Robb had turned towards him, his face covered with an expression he had never seen before. His gaze was terribly accusing but also terribly sad, an incomprehensible and equally chaotic mixture.

“Why do you let them talk to you like that? What's wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with _me_? Are you really asking _that_?”

“Of course I'm asking! In the name of the gods, Jon, where's your pride? Would you even have had the decency to defend yourself if they had attacked you?”

“Decency…?” he asked in a whisper.

Indignation came to his blood immediately. It was as if Robb was blaming him for being insulted. Reproaches, always reproaches, endless reproaches! This premiere plunged him into an intense state of disarray. And then anger, always it, always there, boiling, burning, from the very beginning.

“You're a complete idiot, Robb. You understand nothing at all. I didn't want to dance with Alys, I didn't want to dance with anyone, but you didn't listen to me. It's because of you that they're here! It's all your fault! You and Arthur are nothing but self-centred idiots, you don't care about how I feel, but between the two of you, you're the worst!”

The confusion and surprise on his brother's face only made him angrier.

“You think everything is simple, but you don't know what it is to be born a bastard. You can't even imagine all the insults, all the mockeries, all the contempt. For you, it's all about decency or pride! But what is the pride of a bastard worth? You have always ignored everything and never understood anything. But how could you understand anything anyway, eh? You've always had everything, you're the worthy heir, you're the goodborn, everyone is swooning over you, everyone is cheering you, to you the nobility, to me the bastardy! You don't know what it's like to be stepped on all your life and to be refused the girl you love just because of your birth. I was born out of vice, I was born without a mother, and yours hates me for that reason alone. Just like the Karstarks, just like half the people I meet, but you don't care about that! We don't have the same mother, we're not of the same race, we don't have the same name and you obviously don't even know who I am, so spare me your conceit, spare me your pretences and your unwelcome compassion, and above all stop calling me brother because you're not like me!”

He was no longer in control of his heart. He couldn't even control his screams. In fact, he couldn't control anything. His breath ran out and he felt tears coming up in his eyes. In front of him, dumbfounded, defeated, frozen and pale, Robb looked halfway at his feet. In the chaos of his emotions gradually emerged the guilt of having shouted at him. Shame, in turn, stabbed him, mingled with his anger and provoked a feeling of disgust, which was soon so intense that it became unbearable.

He waited no longer for his bewildered brother to recover from his terrible diatribe and ran away, as fast as he could, as fast as the stairs, the corridors and the people allowed him to.

He found himself outside the keep in a few minutes, then outside the citadel, in the crowded barnyards where the festivities were in full swing, thousands of people everywhere dancing, singing, and feasting. For fear of being recognised and quickly overwhelmed, he crossed as quickly and discreetly as he could this ocean of bodies, hiding his silver strand of hair in his hand and hugging the walls whenever he could. The intense and intermingled smells of wood fires, meat and sweat made him sick, and the profound din of music and the thousands of voices made him dizzy, and from then on he yearned only for peace and silence.

Shortly afterwards he found these in the north courtyard, in the shadow of the broken tower and the moon, near the graveyards and the entrance to the crypts; where he was sure that no one would hang around on this festive night. The only beings living in these places were ghosts and crows.

He felt some rare tears making warm furrows along his cheeks during the night, but he did not have the famous decency to come and wipe them off. He preferred to remain motionless, his arms dangling, lying on the dry but cold grass of the mounds of the north courtyard. Only ghosts and crows would see him here, and they were not very talkative about decency or pride.

Above him, the Ice Dragon reigned in the heavens and traced his titanic path through the darkness, defying all other constellations and heading in eternal solitude towards the far, distant and mythical north. Jon would have liked to be as free as the dragon was.

If he had been a dragon, he would have flown over land and sea and fled far away, so far away that no one would ever have been able to follow him. He would have carried Alys away in the clouds and there would not have been a single man in this world brave enough to oppose him. But it was only a fantasy, as vain and vague as this recurring vision that occupied his dreams, that of the white dragon striped with red that he sometimes embodied, flying under an eclipse sky.

Courting sleep, he finally lost track of time under the stars, the celestial vault glittering with a thousand lights, crisscrossed by the northern lights, veritable swarms of crystals. Old Nan often said that they were the souls of the First Men who danced in the heavens like mortals here below, but for eternity. His mother must also have been there, somewhere in the depths of darkness, near the Ice Dragon, watching him.

The sudden noises of equestrian snorting and hooves in the gravel made him emerge from his dreams and he straightened up in an instant. Arthur was approaching, forcing him to get up in a hurry and wipe the few traces of dry tears from his cheeks.

His uncle was holding two saddled horses by the bridle and Jon had no trouble recognising them. The first was none other than Arthur's steed, Ember, but it was the sight of the second that brought a smile to his face. Winter was still as beautiful as ever and he was all his own.

He approached his horse in silence, reached his muzzle in a few steps and stroked it without waiting. Winter was very happy to see him, he clearly felt him deep inside himself in the same way as he did with Gobbler. His uncle handed him the bridle of his horse shortly afterwards without saying a word and went back to his own horse, while Jon looked at him with curiosity. The knight adjusted his stirrups and saddle sheaths, from the largest of which he saw the characteristic starry pommel of Dawn. Then he settled down on Ember with a nimble leap.

“On your saddle, knight.” he says simply.

Without even waiting for his answer, he spurred the flanks of his horse and rode towards the North Gate.

Watching his uncle move away, Jon finally complied a few seconds later. He hoisted himself up as he could on Winter's saddle and put his feet in his stirrups. He noted that Arthur had provided his saddle with its equipment; on the back of it were fixed saddlebags and camp bag, while his bastard sword placed in its scabbard hung on the right side, half hidden under a large iron-plated shield. With a slight blow to the flanks and a fleeting thought, he then told his stallion to trot after his companion.

They made their way to the paved courtyard at the north entrance to the castle and then to the postern, their horses' hooves clapping on the stone and gravel. The place, lightened by just a few torches placed here and there on the walls, was deserted of all life. They approached the double drawbridge that formed the castle boyau on either side and Jon noted that it was guarded by a handful of guards of the House Stark, all in armour and heavily armed. They greeted them as they arrived, but his uncle did not seem to linger for even a moment, so they passed them by and crossed the long drawbridge suspended over the void.

They were out of Winterfell in an instant and found themselves trotting along the path, towards the Acorn Water. After passing the crossroads between the path to Winterfell and the riverside road, they turned north and passed the stone bridge, then headed east and up the valley. At one point, Ember began to increase his pace at the request of his master, and so he told Winter to imitate them; the trot then doubled and became a gallop.

Jon could see Ember galloping ahead, in full wind at an unsuspected speed. In spite of the night and his jet-black coat, he was still visible because of his fiery red mane; it flew under the speed, like the small speck of fire emanating from the embers, which is why his uncle had called him as such. Ember was one of the representatives of the sand steeds, the purest and noblest of Dorne's breeds of steed. There were few of them anywhere else, and he must have been the only representative of them in the whole North.

But for all the uniqueness of Ember, Winter was even more unique. With his grey-white, mottled coat and matching mane, he was the natural embodiment of the colours of the House Stark and the North; slightly more massive and muscular than Ember, he was a Purebred of the Rills, a Northern steed of the purest lineage. And galloping with him proved to be as exhilarating and invigorating as ever.

Arthur, however, was such a good rider and rode through the night in such a way that Jon could barely keep up with him, despite his powerful mount. Nevertheless, he saw the silver strands that glowed in his uncle's dark hair, shining under the moon and the stars, as did his own.

The wind blew on his face and in his hair and the country passed before his eyes, the hovels that were becoming rarer and rarer, the ditches less and less well dug, and the hills and then the woods. For a few minutes they rode like this. The only light they had then was that of the sky, inconstant but varied, the cold colours of the northern lights giving relief to the open countryside and the tops of the fir trees. Soon there were so many of these that even the moon had difficulty in illuminating them, but Arthur was stubborn and they went deeper into the forest and along what Jon understood to be a mountain path.

Their race through the forest did not last, as the path that zigzagged and climbed up the mountainside came to an end, and with it the woods. At the end of it, the path then opened onto a clearing on the cliffside, on which an imposing dolmen had been erected. The megalithic complex was built in a circular shape, probably by the First Men from time immemorial. There were many of those in the North. This one surrounded a cairn which seemed to be just as old and whose half-ordered pile of stone had partly collapsed on itself.

Arthur dismantled not far away and Jon observed him lead Ember by the bridle into the old site of cult to the Old Gods. He finally decided to imitate him, although he wondered why they were here, and set his feet on the fresh, thick grass.

Winter obediently let himself be guided through the old stones, among which Arthur was standing. When he saw that his uncle had relieved Ember of his bit and bridle and that the animal was grazing the grass growing around them, Jon relieved Winter of his own without delay. The Purebred of the Rills joined his fellow grazer right away.

When he approached Arthur and sat down beside him, it was then that Jon understood.

In the distance stretched the vastness of the North. The dolmen was a belvedere and faced south, and in the middle of the view, Winterfell stood high up in the hills, in the heart of the plain, across the Acorn Water. The fortress and its lower town shone brightly on the solstice night. It was a magnificent sight.

“Winterfell is the heart of the North and its most majestic fortress, but you have to look at it from as far away as here to really appreciate it. Not within its walls, even if they are comfortable and warm. Dragonstone is a little bit the same. It stands on the side of Dragonmont, so high that you can see it about a dozen leagues from the sea and confuse it with the shadow of a huge sleeping black dragon. It influences the whole Narrow Sea, but it is hard to imagine it from its keep.”

Arthur had spoken without turning away from the castle. His tone was calm, almost peaceful, the antithesis of the slaughterful mood he had shown at the end of the feast. Jon simply listened to him, failing to really understand what he was getting at. But the Dayne soon enlightened him.

“It's the same for your life, lad,” he said. “You will never be able to understand the magnitude of the world around you and the influence you can exert on it if you don't take the necessary distance. I told you that earlier. You have to be strong.”

“To inherit Dragonstone?” he asked, but his question was more rhetorical than anything else. “What does it matter if I don't inherit Dragonstone? And even if I do inherit it, what does it matter if my vassals defy me and kick me out of it? And if they don't chase me out, there will always be half of them openly challenging me. And the others will content themselves with ignoring me.”

“And if you believe that, then it is precisely for this reason that you have to stay focused on your goals and your future,” Arthur replied wearily. “Don't slacken off when faced with the pettiness of the present, no matter how painful it may be.”

“Is this where you tell me to forget about my bastardy?”

“This is where I tell you not to forget about who you are deep down and what your place is in this world. And your hypothetical bastardy will not change that. It is not birth that defines men, it is their choices. I have seen in the course of my life simple millers showing more bravery and honour than the knights who were said to be the most eminent, but who only received their supposed nobility of sword by blood. Even the soul of the most vile extraction can acquire the most eminent of nobilities, and if Ser Duncan the Tall is not a sufficient example, one need only to observe half of the guards of Winterfell, who are brave men. So no matter what doubts you have, appease them. You will be made a lord and knight of the Seven Kingdoms. You will enjoy great privileges with these dignities, but you will also have to bear the heavy burden of duty that comes with them. And this duty is already upon you.”

“And this duty implies forgetting Alys.” Jon bitterly concluded.

His uncle's silence was unequivocal.

It lasted for a long time, with a broad breeze that even had time to rock the place, perceptible in the rustle of the tall grasses and the treetops. Not far behind, the occasional snorting of Winter and Ember could be heard as they grazed.

“Don't let your passions get the better of you. Passion is a fire that consumes everything, and it has consumed great men to their own ruin. If you let it cloud your judgement and blur your decisions, it will lose you.”

His uncle's warning sounded like a funeral oration. Had he already lived it? No, he had been in the Kingsguard, so it could not have been him.

“Is that what lost Rhaegar Targaryen?”

The passion he had for his aunt, Lady Lyanna. The kingdom had bled for this passion. Or so they all said. Father refused to talk about it, as did his uncles.

Arthur watched him then as he had never watched him before. It was a heavy, almost haunted look, and very difficult to understand. But in the end he turned away from him and concentrated again on the distant castle.

“Rhaegar Targaryen had his own passions, like all men, and he made mistakes that proved fatal to him. But unlike what you may have heard about him, he never gave in to his passions. Never. He was a man of duty and reason, full of abnegation and righteousness. And he remained so until the very end.”

It was the first time Arthur spoke about him. Usually, Prince Rhaegar was as taboo a subject for Arthur as Lady Lyanna was for Father. He did not know what motivated his uncle to reopen the past, but curiosity took him and swept away his previous worries, at least for a while.

“What was he like, Prince Rhaegar?”

A thin smile seemed to weave itself on the Dayne's lips. It seemed as if he was remembering happy moments from the past.

“He was a good man, the noblest of all, the best I have ever known. He was unequalled among the Targaryens. He was wise like Jaehaerys the Conciliator, devoted like Aemon the Dragon-Knight and virtuous like Aegon the Unlikely. He had dedicated his whole life to the kingdom. And he would have sat on the Iron Throne as never before had any of his ancestors done so.”

His uncle had never worn such fervent words for anyone. Nor had he ever spoken so freely.

“You admired him.” he noted.

“He was my dearest friend and he was the king I had chosen,” his uncle confided to him. “I would have sacrificed myself for him without a moment's hesitation. If I had disobeyed, I would have accompanied him to the Trident and I would have slaughtered the Usurper even before his mount had reached him. I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

And no one could explain it. That Father led his men into battle, but that Arthur was not there.

“But in this case, what has lost Rhaegar Targaryen, if not his passions?”

“His mistakes,” Arthur pronounced bitterly. “His father's destructive madness. And his duty.”

Jon did not fully understand the conclusion of the Dayne. If passion was a weakness and duty led to death, what was he to conclude from what he told him? At no time did the latter enlighten him, and he preferred to stand up. He returned to Ember, whose saddle he handled, and left him to his unanswered questions. When he came back, he was holding two of the three sheaths he had previously attached to his saddle. He literally threw one of them at him as soon as he stood up, so he caught it clumsily.

All smiles had disappeared from the dornish knight. He had regained that unbiased expression that Jon had always known.

“Be aware of this: the vows of a knight are sacred and those of a sworn brother of the Kingsguard are even more so. I swore my oath before the Seven and I have kept it to the very end. I was a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. That, I will never regret. And I will be a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms until the day I die. When you will have to swear your oath, you will understand that duty can be as constraining as it is emancipating. Duty makes you free.”

And his uncle drew his sword. The wrought iron gleamed under the silver moon.

“Now lighten your steel, knight. The sun is not yet up. You may have defeated Tallhart, but I shall not knight my only squire if it means he will lose to a miller in the future.”

The rest of that solstice night dedicated to Summer, they spent it by the Sword.

Surrounded by the Old Gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour everyone,
> 
> Thus concludes this chapter VI of A Prince of Dragonstone.
> 
> I reiterate my deepest apologies for the questionable delay in the publication of this chapter. In all, this chapter required more than 400 hours of editing time due to its great complexity. And about 30 hours to translate it. Started around the second week of October 2020, the first two months proved to be infernal from a creative point of view. I was blocked on many occasions and had to go back over several passages. I knew where I wanted to go, but I didn't know how. This turmoil continued until mid-December, when I finally understood how I should proceed.
> 
> This chapter is 20,000 words long. As stated in the previous chapter, this chapter was a direct continuation of it. You will also note, if you follow my comments, that I have cut this chapter of a substantial part of its content: Ned Stark's PoV, of approximately 10,000 words, will be published at a later date. This will be the next chapter. However, as it did not directly follow the chapter of the Summer Banquet of Winterfell, I have decided to make it an independent chapter.
> 
> I am very satisfied with this chapter. It proved to be a trial. A narrative trial, a restitution of rhythm and moods trial, an imagination trial and just about everything else trial. It's also the first time I've made a chapter based on a single scene without any discontinuity. There was so much to show and say in this chapter that I didn't know where to start and where to go.
> 
> I just love Jon. I think I do a very good job with his character, and I try to develop him gradually to make him a good man, made up of a very concrete, very human panel of emotions. It turns out that I also love Robb and Sansa very much. I wanted to give them more substance, more impact. I wanted to show the friendship between Robb and Jon, more than the brotherhood that comes from blood. In spite of a relationship that is not simple, marked by the reality of their births, their futures, and a semblance of inherent sibling rivalry. Jon is jealous of Robb, which is also an important point. Contrary to the books where he has resigned himself to being what he is, the fact that he is led to be a lord makes him very confused as to what he is or is not. He is therefore extremely frustrated by his situation as a bastard. And the issue with Alys obviously doesn't help. He is young & fallible. So is Robb. Sansa is not perfect either, she is very uncompromising, far too uncompromising. She hurts herself. I wanted to show that they are brother and sister. Certainly not the closest, because that privilege belongs to Arya, but that doesn't change the fact that Jon loves Sansa and would protect her in a vulnerable situation.
> 
> I am beginning to exploit the political breadth of the North very seriously. This necessarily involves Wynafryd Manderly, future lady of White Harbour. Don't forget that the laws of the North are quite advanced in terms of inheritance and that daughters inherit before uncles. And like many others, because of her straight line, her father Wylis being Lord Wyman's heir, and she being her father's heir (until the day he conceives a son, which he manifestly does not desire), and therefore by extension her grandfather's heir, Wynafryd is led to become the Lady of White Harbour. And thus the most powerful bannerman (bannerwoman?) of the House Stark. Wynafryd is therefore one of the key characters of A Prince of Dragonstone and will come back later on. Of course she will. According to Jon, her family has destined her for Robb Stark. This would merge the Houses Stark and Manderly, giving the former a political power in the North equivalent to that held by the Lannisters in the Westerlands. A project of personal union unprecedented in the history of the North since the foundation of the Seven Kingdoms. And of course, strongly contested by many of the lords of the North, who obviously do not want the House Stark to be so powerful. The issue will be discussed further in the next Ned PoV.
> 
> In conclusion, I hope you have enjoyed reading this chapter. It would never have come to life in this magnified form (at least in my opinion) without the vital help of my dearest friend, Lexias. So Lexias, thank you. Thank you for your time, thank you for your invaluable advice, thank you for your even more invaluable friendship. And to all of you, I can't advise you enough to go and read Overwatch: Crossroad, based on the eponymous fandom, which has immense potential, is very well written and is very much worth your time. Do not hesitate to leave me a small comment, which will make me very happy, and feel free to ask me questions or leave me critics.
> 
> Take care of yourself, and stay safe,
> 
> Etsukazu


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